


Constantinople Falls

by Saziikins



Series: Human Remains [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Assassination, Claustrophobia, Drug Addiction, F/M, M/M, Murder, Original Character Death(s), Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Recreational Drug Use, Sex, Terrorism, Torture, Violence, Waterboarding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-12
Updated: 2017-01-01
Packaged: 2018-03-07 08:31:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 77
Words: 471,697
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3168296
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saziikins/pseuds/Saziikins
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There was only one certainty in Mycroft Holmes' life: That being alone was inevitable, safe and the only option. </p><p>Spending time with Greg Lestrade was the stupidest decision he ever made. It was a decision he'd never regret.</p><p>The companion piece to Human Remains.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Mobilisation

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文 available: [Constantinople Falls 君士坦丁堡的陷落](https://archiveofourown.org/works/9800774) by [MAD4O](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MAD4O/pseuds/MAD4O)



> Right. Here is the companion piece to Human Remains. And here is the next 10 or so months of my life!
> 
> A few things:  
> * The tags are warnings in advance of them being mentioned. This fic is darker than Human Remains. There are going to be a few causalities, some violence and some references to some upsetting real life events. I'm not going to make too many apologies for that after this point. Terrorists, criminals, really horrible people all crop up. If you've read HR you know some people get hurt. And this time they may get hurt 'on camera' rather than it being hinted at.  
> * You shouldn't have to have read Human Remains to read this. But there will be new scenes in this that weren't in HR. I am justifying them on the basis that the scenes in HR are important to Greg. The scenes in this fic are important to Mycroft. And that is how I am justifying new material in this, and also cutting certain bits of conversation too.  
> * I doubt I will be updating as frequently as I did with HR. Only know this will be completed by the time the Christmas special comes out, that your comments will keep me going when this fic gets difficult to write (Or when I have exams and should be revising!)  
> * And this story has flashbacks. Just so y'know...  
> * Thank you to all those who offered advice and comments while I was trying to work out how this would work. You know who you are, and I am so very grateful.  
> * Other than that... here we go...

_Constantinople was famed for its massive defences. Although besieged on numerous occasions by various peoples, the Byzantine city was taken only in 1204 by the Latin army of the Fourth Crusade._

 

_The decision to kiss for the first time is the most crucial in any love story. It changes the relationship of two people much more strongly than even the final surrender; because this kiss already has within it that surrender. - Emil Ludwig._

* * *

**January 2013.**

**Location: Crusader House, Pall Mall, London.**

_“Sorry to interrupt,” Mycroft told Mrs Lunden, his cleaner, as he walked into his flat in Crusader House, heading through the living room to his office. “I’ll only be a few minutes.”_

_“No problem, Mr Holmes,” she said. “I’ll be done in five.”_

_Mycroft smiled at her and went to his office. He frowned down at his desk, picking up books and trying to find the document on the Syrian uprisings. He tutted at his own inability to keep things organised. Thank small mercies for Anthea._

_With a shake of his head, giving up on the hunt, he walked out of his office and into the living room where Mrs Lunden was dusting his table._

_“The housekeeper would like to know if Mr Lestrade will be staying over this week,” Mrs Lunden said._

_Mycroft paused for a moment, considering. “Probably,” he said. “Two or three meals, perhaps?”_

_She smiled. “Thank you.”_

_Mycroft nodded and went to his bathroom. He washed his hands and frowned as he picked up Greg’s watch from the cabinet. He must have forgotten to put it on after his shower and before he went to work._

_Mycroft took a few steps backwards, holding the watch out in front of him in the palm of his hand. He sat down on the edge of the bath._

_It was… nice, he thought, to find Greg’s belongings in his home. To think that the man was comfortable there, comfortable in Mycroft’s life. It wouldn’t stay that way, Mycroft thought, not if Greg knew the truth about Sherlock being alive and the truth about the things he’d kept from him._

_But Greg understood secrets. He understood Mycroft._

_Greg would leave when he found out about Sherlock. Mycroft was absolutely certain of that fact. But still. Wasn’t it nice to have the man so close for as long as he could?_

_Mycroft stood up, slipping the watch into his jacket pocket. He opened the cupboard above the sink to find some cream for an insect bite on his ankle when he noticed Greg’s toothbrush lying on one of the shelves. Mycroft kept his own toothbrush in a glass by the sink._

_With a small smile, he placed Greg’s toothbrush in the glass beside his own. He couldn’t deny how right it looked. That there were two of them here, sharing a life. Living in rooms in each other’s hearts._

_And it was with a sudden tightness in his chest that Mycroft realised there truly was someone in his life. Someone he’d lost once, and the pain of that… No. Greg was back. Greg was his. Greg had no second thoughts about that, and neither did he._

_Mycroft licked his lips and pulled out a mental checklist in his mind. Was he happy? Yes. Was he settled? Yes. Did he have any doubts? Surprisingly… no. No doubts, no second thoughts. Was he lonely? Most certainly not._

_Greg had filled all the empty spaces in his life. It felt as though he’d always belonged there, with Mycroft, creating memories with him._

_Mycroft loved the orderliness of his home. Greg didn’t quite meet his standards of tidiness, and he didn’t always remember to put his dirty clothes in the washing basket. He didn’t always clean his plates straight after meals and sometimes he left coffee stains on the table._

_But Greg’s mess made Mycroft feel settled. Content. Where he’d once felt stranded in the middle of a vast ocean, alone, not expecting to be close to another human being for the rest of his life… he wasn’t now._

_He had someone. He had Greg Lestrade. He glanced down at their toothbrushes in the same glass and nodded to himself. That was right, somehow. Perfect._

_He put some of the cream onto his ankle, washed his hands and walked out of the bathroom. He wandered through his flat until he found Mrs Lunden in the bedroom changing the sheets._

_“Change of plans,” Mycroft said when he found her. “Mr Lestrade might be here all week. All month, in fact.”_

_Mrs Lunden smiled at him. “I will let the housekeeper know.”_

_Mycroft nodded at her. “Actually, Mrs Lunden. He might be staying… indefinitely." He frowned to himself as he realised what he intended to do that very evening. "I’m going to ask tonight if he’ll live here," he explained. "And I… I think he’ll say yes.”_

_Mrs Lunden nodded. “Very well,” she said. “Good luck.”_

_Mycroft laughed and nodded, his candidness taking him by surprise. “Right,” he said, stopping in the doorway. “I need to go to work.”_

_She smiled at him, her eyes sparkling. “Have a lovely afternoon, Mr Holmes.”_

_He nodded at her and walked out, a smile still on his face._

* * *

**May 2005.**

**Location: New York, United States Of America.**

**Meeting: Nuclear Non-Proliferation Treaty.**

The noise. The din. The constant trivial conversation. The sound of chair legs scraping on cheap wooden floors. Footsteps, the never-ending stomp of footsteps. The clink of glass and china cups against tables. The click of Christian Louboutin heels on the ground. The first step louder than the second, because Anthea had a blister on her left foot.

Mycroft raised his head from where he was gazing out of the window, out over the vast city. His assistant had come from Conference Room One, taking notes at at least a hundred words a minute in shorthand, judging by the indent on her middle finger.

“Nickolay Garzone wants to meet with you,” she said as she reached her boss of just under 12 months.

Mycroft blinked at her. He wasn’t sure if he was supposed to know who that was. “I’m sorry?” he asked.

“Nickolay Garzone.” She tilted her head to the side, a frown on her face. “He said he wants to talk to you about a project. One he was working on with Hadrian Kirkcudbright.”

Mycroft pursed his lips. “He was working with Hadrian?” he asked.

“Yes. Apparently.”

“When?”

“In the two months before he was murdered,” Anthea said, taking a seat opposite him and retrieving her phone from her handbag. “I’ve cross-referenced with Mr Kickcudbright’s records. They met twice. And spoke on the phone four times.”

Mycroft took another sip of his tea. It had been more than a year since his former colleague had been found dead in the office at his home with his throat cut.

It had been a brutal murder. Hadrian’s brother had been arrested and charged with the crime. Mycroft wasn’t convinced he was the man responsible. But although Hadrian had been useful while alive, he was dead now and no longer Mycroft’s concern.

“What does Mr Garzone do?” Mycroft asked.

“Officially he’s here as a weapons expert for Russia.”

Mycroft narrowed his eyes. “And unofficially?”

“You’ll know if you saw him.”

Russian secret service then, Mycroft mused. And if Mr Gazone was secret service and dealing with Hadrian, then one or the other was probably screwing the other for information. Or working together, which was an altogether more alarming thought when Mycroft took into account what Hadrian had been involved in prior to his death.

“I’ll meet with him,” Mycroft decided. It would be a welcome distraction from nuclear weapons at any rate... 

“The meeting led by Indian Prime Minister starts again at 2pm,” Anthea reminded him. “You have 12 minutes to spare now or you won’t have time until after dinner with the British delegation.”

“And knowing the British delegation, dinner will take approximately three hours and 20 minutes.” Mycroft checked his pocket watch. “If he’s that keen to meet with me, he’ll wait.”

“I’ll confirm it,” Anthea said, turning back to her phone. “You should leave, sir.”

“Quite right,” Mycroft murmured, putting his cup and saucer down on the table. “Thank God this is almost over.”

He frowned as his phone beeped, and he retrieved it from his pocket. One text - his daily update on his brother’s movements. He frowned. “Sherlock’s at Scotland Yard. Again.” He looked down at Anthea. “Would you please find out what they’re charging him with this time?”

She shook her head. “They’re not.”

“What?”

“He’s not charged with anything,” Anthea said, not looking up from her phone. “He goes there of his own volition. Working with someone.”

“Working?”

“Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade. Heads up the Homicide and Serious Crime Division.”

“I don’t know the man. Who is he?”

Anthea blinked at him. “That’s all I know. For now,” she added quickly, realising immediately that she'd made a mistake in not doing more research. “I’ll have his details on your desk for when you return.”

“Thank you.” Mycroft nodded to her before walking through the hotel restaurant and back to Conference Room Two. He took his seat beside the British Prime Minister. He was relieved this conference was almost over. When he took a backward step from his work for MI6 eight years ago, consulting on nuclear weapons with the heads of world governments had not been his ambition.

He had considered doing more freelance work. And office-based freelance work at that. But his life had taken a surprising course, and he’d wound up in Whitehall acting as a Civil Servant in the Department For Transport.

Those who had taken any notice at all of his swift promotions would have questioned his meteoric rise through the Civil Service. He had proved himself to be invaluable. And now he was working alongside the top dogs in the Government, negotiating on diplomatic concerns in a way he was not doing as recently as six months earlier.

* * *

After dinner, he returned to his room, taking a seat by his desk and leafing through the paperwork Anthea had left out for him.

Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade was aged 38. He’d joined the police force in 1988. He was trained in firearms, but never licenced to carry one. Then in 1997, he had joined the Homicide and Serious Crime Division and been promoted to Sergeant. He had been promoted again only three months ago to Detective Inspector.

It was a natural career progression as far as Mycroft could tell. He had an outstanding record for the most part. He’d taken three months off for stress reasons in both 1989 and 1997. And a few months off in 1999 after receiving a stab wound to his abdomen. Mycroft was about to turn to the next page in the Inspector’s files when there was a knock on the door. He turned the paperwork upside down on the desk.

Anthea opened the door four seconds after knocking, as was her way. “Mr Garzone,” she said, stepping aside to let the tall, dark-haired man in. She gave Mycroft a faint nod before leaving them alone.

Mycroft stood up, holding his hand out to the man. Mid-40s, married, three children, prosthetic arm, so perhaps office-based now.

“Mycroft Holmes,” Mycroft said as they shook hands. “Please, take a seat.”

“Nickolay Garzone. Thank you for agreeing to meet.” Nickolay sat down on the sofa while Mycroft took the chair opposite.

“How can I help?” Mycroft asked, speaking in Russian.

Nickolay stared at him for a moment before nodding in appreciation. “Thank you,” he said in his native tongue. “You worked with Hadrian Kirkcudbright.”

Mycroft stayed quiet, his face impassive.

“We met before,” Nickolay said.

“I don’t forget a face,” Mycroft told him, unblinking.

Nickolay nodded, hesitating for a second. “Well, yes, you and I didn’t meet, but you met my wife. She works for the Federal Security Service Of The Russian Federation. The British intelligence officers were working on a pact, to share information relating to explosives being shipped from Eastern Europe to the Middle East. You and Hadrian both attended. It was… a few years ago now. In about 2000.”

“I recall,” Mycroft murmured. “What do you want?”

Nickolay glanced down at his hands. “I know things,” he whispered. “Not a lot. But a little bit. I heard you were here and I thought… hoped you could help. Are you taping this meeting?”

“No.”

“You are not as suspicious as Hadrian was then.”

Mycroft frowned. “Don’t mistake my lack of surveillance for me being unprepared. On the contrary. My memory is simply far better than his was.”

Nickolay wrung his hands, looking around the room for a moment before speaking again. “I want to help. I have information.”

“What is it?” Mycroft asked.

“If I give it to you, I’ll be killed.”

Mycroft raised his eyebrows. “Then you want to trade,” he said. “What do you want?”

“My safety in the United Kingdom. And safety for my wife and children.”

“No,” Mycroft said without a single second passing to consider it. 

“What?” Nickolay asked.

“No,” Mycroft repeated, his voice firm.

“I have information. Rickard Luck is-”

Mycroft sat up straight, and held his hand up, silencing him. “I don’t want to know what you think you know, Mr Garzone. I think it’s far better that we end this discussion here.” He made to stand up, but Nickolay spoke again, stopping him.

“He’s selling weapons illegally.”

Mycroft stiffened, narrowing his eyes. “And what do you think I should do about it?” he asked tightly.

“If you will not help me then I will die,” Nickolay said, his voice trembling. “My wife. My children. They’ll kill them all. You don’t want that on your conscience.”

“I have far worse things on my conscience, I’m afraid.” Mycroft paused. “For curiosity’s sake, how did you find out about Rickard Luck?”

“My parents,” Nickolay murmured. “They lived in the South Ossetia region of Georgia. In the Tsitelubani village. Or they did.”

Tsitelubani. Mycroft had only become aware of incident in Tsitelubani 15 months ago, but even now, the images from the reports made his blood turn cold. Unarmed men, women and children killed because Russia wanted to declare sovereignty over those lands.

Weapons manufacturer Rickard Luck had sold those weapons to the Russians. High-tech, expensive and untested weapons, not the sort to be used on innocent people. Rickard Luck wasn’t responsible for the atrocities, not directly. He wasn’t responsible for the cover-up either. But those weapons were not fit to be given to any country. It was a puzzle piece in an enormous jigsaw. Part of Operation Indigo, which Mycroft had been working alongside Hadrian Kirkcudbright on.

“How did you know about it?” Mycroft asked.

“I was involved in the cover-up.”

Mycroft nodded. “I see.” He sighed. “I’m sure you deserve more than what I am about to say. I can only apologise. But I cannot allow you a safe haven in the United Kingdom. When the Russian Government learns you betrayed them, then our Government will struggle to negotiate with them more than we’re struggling already. If we can prevent another Tsitelubani, then I think that’s the most important thing. I’m sorry you wasted a trip.”

“It needs to come out,” Nickolay muttered. “The weapons. I didn’t sign up for these cover-ups. What he’s doing is indefensible.”

“Then you are an honourable man,” Mycroft said, standing and extending his hand. Nickolay shook it.

“Are you not an honourable man, Mycroft Holmes?” Nickolay asked, studying him.

Mycroft paused for a moment. “Goodnight, Mr Garzone,” he said instead of answering the question. He watched as Nickolay walked out of the room, dragging his feet in silent defeat.

Mycroft sat back down at his desk. He turned on his laptop and began to check his emails. He hesitated for only a moment as he considered Mr Garzone. He was wiling to give up his country and Government so easily. And anyone willing to give up Rickard Luck’s name was sure to find themselves in trouble very soon.

With a shake of his head, Mycroft expected Nickolay Garzone had a few months left to live if he kept shouting his mouth off.

When Anthea appeared at the door, Mycroft only had to look up at her and say: “watch him.”

She nodded, and left him to it.

* * *

**Location: London, United Kingdom.**

London.

A city full of optimism, even among the broken homes and council-run estates. Even when the gangs shot their own, there was an air of hope about it. For the eternally-optimistic, it was a city where things could only go up, not down.

Never mind the state of the economy. Never mind, for pity’s sake, that London was no longer the centre of the world because ‘Great’ before ‘Britain’ was only true on paper. Because now it was ruled by America and China and anywhere else with more money and buying power. But Britain continued to punch above its weight, and that thought only filled Mycroft with pride. 

Because a weakened economy and no longer having an empire didn't matter. Because in London, it felt like the centre of the universe.

Upon arriving back in the capital, Mycroft took a step into the Coeur de Lion office in Mayfair. Sixteen desks were lined up in one room, eight on either side. Laptops and safes were placed on each one. The room was dark, the blinds drawn to keep it from prying eyes on the other side of the road.

Here it was. The unofficial secret offices, funded by Mycroft himself, ready to fill with employees of his choosing.

He allowed himself a content smile as he surveyed the room and heard Anthea’s footsteps behind him. “Is everything to your liking, sir?” she asked.

“Better, in fact,” he murmured, running his fingers along one of the dark wood desks. “I think we’ll be quite comfortable here.”

“I agree,” she said. “The staff will start at 6.30am tomorrow.”

“And the computer systems?” Mycroft asked.

“A technician will confirm it’s all working this afternoon.”

“We don’t have time to settle in,” Mycroft reminded her. “These are professionals, and they will expect the best.”

“Consider it done,” Anthea said. She turned and walked into her own office, located beside Mycroft’s own.

He opened the door to his room and stepped inside. It was dark, as it had been when he first saw it. He’d intentionally kept it that way, glad for it to be free of natural light, so he could lose himself in his work, without worrying about the time.

The portrait of the Queen had already been hung behind the antique desk and everything was just as it was supposed to be.

Seven months in the making, and finally his office was ready. And aside from the staff, only the Heads of MI5, MI6 and GCHQ knew about… this. It had no name, no address, no traceable phone number.

Everyone here officially worked for MI5 or MI6. Only they didn’t, not directly. Mycroft turned on his computer for the first time and began to send some emails.

Two hours later, Anthea knocked on his door. “Mr Danny Finck to see you,” she said. “He’s the IT man.”

Mycroft nodded to her and stood up, following her out.

A young man (father-of-one, former cryptographer, once a smoker), with sand-coloured hair and a blue suede jacket, stood with his hands behind his back. He flashed a shy smile, extending his hand out. “Danny Finck,” he said with a well-managed stutter, shaking Mycroft’s hand. “It’s a pleasure.”

Mycroft nodded. “Mycroft Holmes,” he said. “Welcome.”

Danny grinned and nodded towards one of the computers. “Ready to see my baby?” he asked. “I’m calling it Watchtower.”

Mycroft frowned at the name, and took a seat beside him at one of the desks. “And you developed this yourself?” he asked.

He watched as Danny logged in, going through three stages of passwords before everything opened. “I started working on it as soon as your staff contacted me,” Danny said. “It’s exclusive to this office. Three levels of security to get in, and I’ve locked every backdoor I could think of. This is the most secure computer programme in the world.”

“That’s a very bold statement,” Mycroft murmured.

“You’ve started a bold project,” Danny replied with a crooked smile.

Mycroft watched as Danny clicked onto an icon called Watchtower. It launched a programme with a list of locations.

The Houses Of Parliament. The MI5 base at Thames House. Baskerville. Each had a coloured box beside it - green, yellow and orange.

“It’s a simple enough system to use,” Danny said. “We get feeds from every hospital in the country. Every school. Every council and Government building. Every science facility, prison, police station… you name the thing, and we got it.”

Mycroft frowned, his eyes scrolling down the list. “I see,” he said, although he wasn’t sure he fully appreciated the extent of it yet.

“These colours?” Danny asked, the cursor hovering over them. “They’re alerts. Green is a stable, normal day. Red is for urgent, serious emergencies. We’ve got a yellow warning here under Hospitals…” Danny clicked ‘hospitals’ opening up a list of every one in the country. “Southampton General Hospital has a case of MRSA, so it tells us it’s on yellow status at the moment.”

“How on earth is this data all in one place?” Mycroft asked.

Danny grinned. “Got permission to link every Government database in the country to Watchtower,” he said. “So, here’s how it works. One doctor diagnoses a patient with MRSA and puts it into the patient’s NHS records. Those records link into one big NHS system. That links to Watchtower. Ping. MRSA is yellow alert under Southampton General Hospital. If a doctor finds something a lot of more infectious? You’re looking at oranges and reds. Even if it’s only suspected, it pings up.”

“How do you propose we use this?” Mycroft asked.

“To me, someone needs to monitor this 24 hours a day. They need to check every yellow alert, because every yellow could escalate to oranges and reds very quickly. But for you? You can set up your computer to ping up with reds and oranges. It’s adaptable. If you have a particular member of staff you want to focus on prisons and only prisons? You can lock them out of everything else.”

Mycroft nodded. “Yes, that’s ideal.” They may have given their lives to the country’s security, but it didn’t mean they needed to know everything.

Danny grinned at him. “So? Thoughts?”

“You’re the only one who knows how to programme this, correct?”

“Yep.”

Mycroft paused for a moment. “Are you looking for a job?” he asked.

“Are you offering?”

“I’m not allowing you to work anywhere else,” Mycroft said with an amused smile. “You’re a cryptographer by trade.”

Danny blinked at him. “Um. Well I-I-I-yes. I am. How did you know?”

“Do you prefer working with computers?” Mycroft asked, ignoring the question.

Danny nodded. “Mm. Always. Since I was a kid.”

“I like this programme,” Mycroft informed him. “It’s good, but it’s not perfect. We can do more with it. Link into other programmes.”

“Yeah, I agree. I was thinking it would be brilliant to have maps and CCTV feeds. There’s a lot we can do with this.”

Mycroft smiled and stood up, holding out his hand. Danny shook it. “I’ll have Anthea set up an office for you,” Mycroft said.

Danny nodded. “Thanks, Mr Holmes.”

Anthea looked up from her phone and nodded to Danny. “I have a room that will be perfect,” she told him, leading him to another office.

Mycroft left them to it, settling down to his computer to double check Danny Finck’s records. He’d been working for MI5 ever since he left university. And he was intelligent, dealing in mathematics, codes and computers. He was the ideal addition to Mycroft’s team. With a pleased smile, Mycroft sat back in his chair.

Yes, this would work out nicely.

* * *

Sherlock was still spending time with Detective Inspector Lestrade at various crime scenes. From drug addict to following around the officers of the law. It made very little sense as far as Mycroft was concerned.

Mycroft had sent a few of his cars to monitor Sherlock in the past few weeks, and although he knew Sherlock hated the surveillance, giving in and making contact with Mycroft was the last thing he wanted to do.

And so he tolerated it.

It was a pleasant day when Mycroft sat in the back of the car, reading over his files. His car pulled up outside a warehouse, a white tent hiding the dead body outside.

Sherlock was stood protesting with one of the Metropolitan Police’s Sergeants. DI Lestrade emerged from the tent a few moments later, pulling off forensic gloves.

Mycroft watched as the grey-haired man (aged 38 from memory, although turning prematurely grey) folded his arms as he spoke to Sherlock. But although his brother was acting up, Lestrade had a soft grin on his face, even while he was scolding him.

Sherlock held his hands out and Lestrade passed him some forensics gloves, allowing him access to the tent.

Lestrade turned his head. He looked straight at the car, raising his eyebrows. Mycroft knew he couldn’t see inside, and he took a moment to study the man. He was comfortable and in his element, but observant enough to have noticed the car in the past few weeks.

“Go now,” Mycroft murmured.

Moments later, he was driven away from the scene.

* * *

The next day, before work, he stepped into his nearest church hall and put a cross beside the Conservative Party on his ballot paper.

Though outwardly he would have no preference for who was elected the next Prime Minister, he hoped change might be in order.

By the time he arrived at the office, 16 staff were in place. Hand-picked and on occasion, bribed and threatened, they were some of the finest minds in MI5, MI6, GCHQ and the Civil Service. Among them was one former soldier, a former police officer and a number of the best minds in British espionage. And Danny Finck might as well have been Steve Jobs and Bill Gates combined in one computer-genius brain.

Mycroft nodded to them as he headed for his own office.

Anthea’s assistant, Loretta, brought him a tray of tea. He sat down and cast his eye over his emails, already split into categories. Urgent, priority, agendas and personal. A separate section dealt with emails already read and responded to by Anthea, though they were placed in Myroft’s inbox too, in case he needed to keep an eye on things himself.

He turned to the personal emails first. One was simply the information detailing Sherlock’s movements. He had been spending a lot of time at New Scotland Yard. And Mycroft could not comprehend DI Lestrade’s motives. There was only one thing for it…

He turned to his laptop and sent an instant message to Anthea.

_Take me to New Scotland Yard._


	2. The Watchdog

**May 2005.**

**Location: New Scotland Yard, London.**

He stepped into New Scotland Yard’s reception in the afternoon. He was let into the building without a word being spoken and just a flash of his card. Head held high, he wandered through the hallways as though he was there every day. No one questioned him.

Once he’d reached the Homicide and Serious Crime Division, a woman looked up from her computer with a sceptical raise of her eyebrow. She was a Police Constable, one with several years under her belt judging by the types of reports she was filling in and the computer systems she had access to.

“Can I help you?” she asked, eyeing him with interest.

“I’m from the Government,” Mycroft said, retrieving his card from his pocket to show to her. “I’m here to see Detective Inspector Lestrade. I believe he’s available.”

“Nope,” she said. “He should be back in a bit. I can ask him to give you a call?”

“No need. I’ll wait in his office.”

She narrowed her eyes. “I’m not sure.”

Mycroft glanced down at her desk, where her paperwork lay. Constable Sally Donovan, she’d signed on the bottom of the reports. “It’s rather urgent,” he informed her. “If you don’t mind, I’ll wait.” She minded, that was clear, but she accepted it nonetheless, though she wasn’t sure why she was allowing it. He looked around the room. “Is that it there?” he asked, nodding his head towards the glass office.

“Yeah, but… but, well, I’m not sure you’re allowed in uninvited,” PC Donovan said.

Mycroft offered her a cool smile. “I’m not a vampire,” he said, before turning and striding towards the office. Constable Donovan did not follow. But Mycroft knew she was keeping an eye on him.

He opened the door to Detective Inspector Lestrade’s office. It was clean, but messy. He was new to the role, having been recently promoted, Mycroft knew. He’d hardly unpacked, despite moving into the room a few months ago. He hadn’t settled yet then.

Mycroft strolled around his desk, where an unemptied cardboard box lay on the floor, full of paperwork. A framed wedding photo was resting on the top, although the glass was dusty and cracked. It all indicated a marriage gone stale. Mycroft regarded the floor, with dark marks from where the desk legs used to be. The desk had been recently moved, so the Inspector could see the door from his seat.

Mycroft mused that he would have done the same had their positions been reversed. Greg was claustrophobic too, then, perhaps.

His phone vibrated and he removed it from his pocket, blinking down at the screen. The message was in Russian. They had caught the Slovakian terrorist they had been attempting to track down, so that was one less concern.

Mycroft heard the determined steps from behind him and he turned when the man entered the room. Ah yes, the wedding ring was there on DI Lestrade’s finger. So he was still married. Childless though, a surprise, perhaps, at his age.

Mycroft held his hand out, nodding his head as the Detective Inspector took it. It was a solid handshake, firm, from a man who respected others but felt himself to be in control in this environment.

“Detective Inspector Lestrade,” Mycroft said, holding his eyes. “I am Mycroft Holmes.”

“What?” the Inspector asked with a deep frown. He wandered around the room to his seat on the other side of his desk. “No,” he said. “Two John Smiths I can believe. I don’t believe I’ve met two Mycroft Holmeses in the last two months.”

Mycroft frowned as he also took a seat. “What?” he asked. Two Mycroft… _oh_. Sherlock. “Oh, for goodness sake, is that what he’s calling himself these days?” He rolled his eyes and held out his card, handing it to the Inspector.

Greg Lestrade’s dark eyes flicked between the card and Mycroft’s face. He shrugged his shoulders a bit before handing the card back.

“Just how are you acquainted with Sherlock, exactly?” Mycroft asked.

“Who’s Sherlock?”

Mycroft fought back a roll of his eyes. He’d had such high hopes for this one but it appeared he was as slow on the uptake as the rest of them. “The man whose drug habit you helped fund last week. He has been at two cases with you in the last week.”

“He said his name was Mycroft,” Greg replied.

“It’s Sherlock. Have you honestly been talking to a man outside on the force on cases and you don’t know who he is?”

Greg gave an indignant shake of the head. He was more concerned about his involvement with Sherlock than he made out though. “I pulled him in as a witness. He’s being hanging around. He’s been of use. He’s quite smart.”

Mycroft managed a half smile. “Yes. Quite an understatement,” he said. “Such a shame he’s decided to use his mind for police work, when his talents would be much more wisely used elsewhere - no offence intended - while simultaneously destroying it with drugs. Nonetheless, will you be continuing to engage his services?”

“If he keeps being useful,” Greg said as he folded his arms across his chest. There was no discomfort there, Mycroft noted. He was in control, not intimidated. That was perhaps surprising considering he had been taking Sherlock to crime scenes illegally. Mycroft had deduced him to be the honest sort, but he thought he might need to revise that assessment.

But in the past few years, Mycroft could recall only two other people who were not easily intimidated by him. The first was Anthea Boyette. The second was his driver, Jim Braum. Mycroft was surprised to be considering that Greg Lestrade could ever be on a par with them.

Nonetheless, Mycroft thought, he wasn’t going to deter the man. “Very good,” he said. “This could be good for him. I find it most distressing he has decided drugs are going to make him feel better. He has one of the greatest minds in Britain and he’s destroying it so needlessly. I haven’t spoken to my brother in several months. But I have his interests very much at heart. If you could keep me informed, I would be very grateful.”

“No,” Greg said instantly.

Mycroft tilted his head. “I’m sorry?”

“I’m not spying on your brother for you. You want to know, ask him yourself.”

So there was honour there. A surprising sense of loyalty, unusual in someone dealing with Sherlock. It was troubling, if he were honest.

Mycroft found he couldn’t control his frown. “Very well,” he said, after a few moments had passed. “Sorry to have used so much of your time, Detective Inspector. I expect you and I could be seeing quite a lot of each other. Do look after Sherlock for me. And for goodness sake, stop giving him money for heroin.”

He picked up his briefcase and walked calmly out of the room. He wandered back past PC Donovan who was already out of her seat and heading for her boss’ office.

He continued out of the Yard and slid back into his car. He double checked his schedule and found he had time to go to the Diogenes for a few hours to read a newspaper, have some lunch and enjoy a few hours of silent contemplation.

After informing his driver Max Karzai where to go, he sat back in his chair and gazed out of the window.

* * *

 If someone had told him that he would find a comfortable living among the lying and the privileged Members Of Parliament, Mycroft would have almost laughed.

Almost laughed, because as far as his parents were concerned, that was exactly where he was destined to end up. He was just like one of them. A liar on occasion, but a good one at least. Privileged, certainly. Intelligent too, although his mind was far superior to those working in Whitehall, and it was his desire for a challenge that had led him to the Security Services instead of the echelons of Government.

That was then, though. Now he had found a new career, somehow intertwined with his old one.

He smiled as the Prime Minister’s secretary put a saucer of tea in front of him, complete with a bourbon biscuit.

“Congratulations on your re-election,” Mycroft said to the Prime Minister with a courteous smile.

“I have a feeling you voted for the other guy,” the Prime Minister replied with an easy grin, picking his biscuit up and biting half of it, so a crumb clung to his chin.

“I enjoy change,” Mycroft lied, and it was easy to say it, because it made the Prime Minister laugh. The re-elected Labour Prime Minister had pretending to be amiable down to a fine art. It was second nature; his words said with a smile, a wink and a laugh.

“I suppose you’re wondering why I wanted to catch up with you,” the Prime Minister said.

Mycroft studied him for a second before taking a sip of his tea. “We didn’t get what we wanted from the nuclear treaty,” he replied, knowing full-well that had absolutely nothing to do with the meeting.

“Too right we didn’t,” the Prime Minister agreed. “But no, I don’t care about that. Voters don’t give a hoot about that. Take a look at this.” He picked up several pieces of paper, stapled together.

Mycroft took it. It was a draft of the Identity Cards Act. Already alarm bells began to ring in Mycroft’s head at the prospect of a Government forcing everyone in Britain to carry ID with them at all times. “And what do you want me to do with this?” he asked.

“Read it. Give me your opinion.”

Mycroft frowned and flicked through the papers, skimming over the words. The idea of a National Identity Register, with links across Europe, sounded wonderful in principle. It would keep a close eye on those entering and leaving the country for a start. And yet… “Protecting the country’s security would be far easier,” Mycroft murmured. “But you won’t get this passed.”

“Why not?”

“Because it’s an invasion of privacy people won’t tolerate.”

“Why not?” the Prime Minister asked. “They care about being safe from terrorists.”

“Yes, I accept that.”

“It’ll prevent organised crime.”

Mycroft raised an eyebrow. “Will it?” he asked.

A hint of intense dislike permeated the Prime Minister’s features for a moment, before he went back to that sparking smile. Oh yes, he could be very amiable. And intensely unlikable all at once. “You don’t approve,” the Prime Minister said. “I heard that national security was very much in your remit.”

“You’re correct,” Mycroft said. “It is. And I have led a number of teams and have a satisfactory record at protecting the security of the United Kingdom.”

“But not a good record.”

“I don’t undertake surveillance at the risk of people’s privacy,” Mycroft informed him. “And I’m not entirely sure why you’ve invited me here to discuss this.”

“I’m consulting. Someone said you know all there is to know about national security in this country. Expert, apparently.”

“I’ve spent a few years in MI5 and MI6, yes.”

“In the field?”

“Both in the field and off it,” Mycroft said. “I’m not, however, the right person to advise on policy.”

“Do you want to be?”

Mycroft tilted his head, narrowing his eyes a fraction. “I’ve advised on certain matters before,” he said slowly. “But no one’s taken much notice of my recommendations.”

“No, you’ve got that right. You said the Iraq war had a likelihood of failure of… what was it? 50 per cent?”

“53 per cent,” Mycroft corrected. “And I stand by it. Of course, it depends on what you consider success and failure.”

“No more terrorists.”

“Then you’re looking at 97 per cent chance of failure.”

The Prime Minister snorted with laughter, finally rubbing away the crumb from his chin. “Come on. Say what you think,” he joked.

Mycroft smiled. “Do people often tell you what they think?” he asked.

The Prime Minister grinned. “Mostly, no. Even the opposition just say the opposite of what I say, even if they agree with me. Go on. Give it to me.”

“The act will fail,” Mycroft told him. “People won’t accept it. Human rights activists will abhor it and campaign against it. Ferociously, I imagine.”

“Makes your life easier, doesn’t it? To try and work out the terrorists’ next moves.”

“Indeed it does,” Mycroft said. “But I never asked for an easy life.”

The Prime Minister smiled and stood up. Meeting concluded. He held out his hand, which Mycroft dutifully shook.

“Swing by next week,” the Prime Minister said. “Have your PA set up a weekly meeting for us. It’s nice to get a differing view sometimes.”

“I’m sure it’s far better when that differing view is willing to change its mind.”

The Prime Minister just laughed. “Yeah, it is. But I am in the persuading business, and I’ll do a number on you, Mycroft. Got a few years to swing you to my way of thinking.”

“Best of luck with that,” Mycroft replied, a cool smile on his face. The Prime Minister grinned and sat down and Mycroft took that as his cue to leave, unsure of quite who had won that particular encounter.

* * *

**June 2005.**

**Location: Mayfair, London.**

Mycroft flicked through his newspapers as he sat in the back of his car on the way to the Coeur de Lion office. There were few stories of any note, until he reached The Times. Oliver Cale, its chief reporter and an old university friend of Mycroft’s, was reporting from court on the murder of Hadrian Kirkcudbright. It said:

_The court heard how the defendant, Lucian Kirkcudbright, had been in Bristol at the time of his murder. Although no alibis had been mentioned to police during his interviews, CCTV cameras revealed Mr Lucian Kirkcudbright had been at a Premier Inn hotel in the South West earlier that day._

“Good morning,” Anthea said, as he reached his office. She sat down on the opposite side of the desk, papers in hand. “Agenda for a meeting at MI5 Headquarters,” she said, handing it over.

“The Hadrian Kirkcudbright case is in court,” Mycroft said, his eyes skimming the timetable. “Second day.”

Anthea glanced up at him. “Yes,” she said. “Did you want the details?”

“If you would,” Mycroft said. “Though judging by the newspaper report, the police have the wrong suspect.”

“I’ll have the reports sent over by the Crown Prosecution Service and defence lawyers in the next hour. Mr Kirkcudbright’s work has not been mentioned in court.”

Mycroft nodded. He hadn’t suspected it would come up. The lawyers and judge had been refused access to that line of questioning, and once MI5 had got involved, they hadn’t bothered pushing the matter. Hadrian’s work was hardly relevant to his brother allegedly murdering him after all.

Mycroft didn’t look at court documents very often. He had very little to do with the judiciary. It was a separate arm of the state, an area in which the every day person had a say in whether someone was guilty of a crime or not.

But going on the evidence pulled together for the Kirkcudbright case, the jury only had one decision to make: to find Lucian Kirkcudbright not guilty.

Mycroft couldn’t fathom how the case had even got this far. He checked the names associated with the case. Detective Inspector Pittman was the lead. Joined by Sergeant Lestrade.

How many Lestrades could there possibly be at the Metropolitan Police?

It was curious, Mycroft thought, how his life was linking with DI Lestrade in more than one way. He wasn’t convinced the case should have ever got to court. The defence’s arguments were thorough and the Crown Prosecution Service was desperate to find a resolution to a brutal high-profile murder at the expense of justice, so it seemed.

Still, Mycroft had high hopes for DI Lestrade. He had seemed more intelligent than some of his associates and his dealings with Sherlock were intriguing. And Mycroft wasn’t intending to discourage their arrangement straight away, even if the man had made a mess of the Kickcudbright case.

A day later, Mycroft saw on the news how Lucian Kirkcudbright had been acquitted of all charges.

Moments later, he was collecting his coat and some letters he had been meaning to forward on to Sherlock, and heading towards the car. “Take me to New Scotland Yard,” he instructed as he got in.

* * *

Mycroft settled himself into Greg Lestrade’s office just minutes before he heard the man’s determined footsteps. He was in a bad mood.

Greg stormed into the room, slamming the door behind him. Mycroft raised his eyebrows, sitting in silence as the Inspector kicked the bin before turning his attention to Mycroft. He was dripping wet, a drop of rainwater falling from his hair and onto his face.

“Bad day?” Mycroft asked with an air of nonchalance.

“Great deduction,” Greg replied bitterly, pulling his coat off. He had a box of nicotine patches in his pocket. That went some way to explaining his mood at any rate, if he had given up smoking. Greg dropped his coat down onto the floor, shaking his head and letting water spray everywhere. “It’s bloody chucking it down. What are you doing in my office?”

“You lost the Kirkcudbright case,” Mycroft said.

Greg’s eyes darkened. “Yes, I’m aware. I was in the bloody court room.”

Mycroft raised an eyebrow at him.

“Do you want a coffee?” Greg growled at him.

Mycroft frowned. “What?”

“I’m making a coffee, do you want one?” Greg snapped.

“Oh,” Mycroft acknowledged, studying him. He cared about his cases then. He cared about the victims and about finding justice. He seemed to care far too much perhaps, on occasion. “No. I am quite alright, thank you.”

He watched as the Inspector moved to his coffee machine, turning it on. “Fuck!” he exclaimed, his fists tightening at his sides.

“Yes, I must admit,” Mycroft began, “until I saw the files I thought the case was solved too. However, when I heard the jury deliberations were taking a while, I asked to have them sent over.” He made a tutting sound, shaking his head. “Come on now, Detective Inspector, you knew that wasn’t your man.”

Greg turned to him, a sneer on his lips. “The evidence-”

“-Was convincing in theory.” Greg rolled his eyes and turned back to making his coffee. “But once you looked at it down on paper,” Mycroft continued, “it looked circumstantial at best.”

“How the hell did you get my files?” Greg asked, turning around to stare at him.

“Hadrian Kirkcudbright worked in my Department,” Mycroft explained. “And I knew plenty of people who could acquire the files for me when they thought as highly of him as I did.”

“He your boyfriend or something?” Greg asked, spooning coffee into his mug.

Mycroft narrowed his eyes. Either the Inspector could read people like a book, and had worked out Mycroft’s sexuality, or he was being facetious. Mycroft chose to ignore both possibilities. “No,” he said. “Just a colleague. But a good one. You knew you had the wrong man, Inspector, but I’m sure it can be easily put right.”

“Is that what you’re here for?” Greg asked, heading for his seat on the other side of the desk. “To tell me how to solve my case?”

“Actually no,” Mycroft said, offering him a cool smile. “Although please do solve it. Get Sherlock to take a look, I know he’ll find what you’re missing.”

Greg’s eyes narrowed at that. Oh, he clearly knew Sherlock’s mind and insights would be useful. But he was a proud man.

“No, the reason I’m here,” Mycroft continued, reaching for letters he had left on the table. “These are all addressed to Sherlock. Since he does not wish to see me, I thought you might be able to pass them to him. I doubt they’re particularly of interest to him, but it might do well to remind him he does have some responsibilities.”

Greg snorted. “Sherlock? Responsible?”

“Quite,” Mycroft agreed. “But he does owe Cambridge £190 in book fines and his mobile company around £300 and I fear the latter might send some sort of chap around to collect it if he’s not careful.” He stood up, studying Greg’s wet hair. “Seeing you so damp really has reminded me I must get an umbrella. Have a better afternoon than you have had a morning, Detective Inspector.”

And then he nodded and left, a frown between his eyes. He couldn’t wrap his head around the man, and that bothered him.

He sent Anthea a single text: _Keep a closer surveillance on Detective Inspector Lestrade. I want to know all his movements._


	3. Terror

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> General warning: This chapter includes terrorism and all things associated with it. 
> 
> (Random fact: Human Remains doesn't have a July 2005. In the whole series, it is the only month missing. It wasn't intentional. I'm not sure how that happened. But hey ho). 
> 
> (Other note: I'm posting new chapters only when I've finished one. Tonight I've written one and a half chapters. I'm so proud!)

**June 2005.**

**Location: Coeur de Lion Offices, Mayfair, London.**

His throat had been cut, from right to left. His wedding ring and watch had had not been taken. Blood had stained the tarmac. His shirt had been ripped in the struggle. He’d fought back, but the perpetrators had got the better of him, peppering his skin in bruises.

Mycroft turned the photograph upside down on his desk, pursing his lips. He’d known. He’d known from the moment he met Nickolay Garzone that the man was going to wind up dead. He was too eager to spill his secrets, and Rickard Luck too keen to shut up those who got in his way.

“It was a quiet funeral,” Anthea said. “Just his wife and children. No colleagues.”

“They organised that quickly.”

“Yes.”

Mycroft nodded. “Where was he killed?”

“We don’t know,” Anthea told him. “They didn’t bury a body. They never found it. His wife received this picture and that’s all. They don’t even know who sent the picture.”

Mycroft frowned for a moment, turning the photo back over and studying the ground the body was lying on. Tarmac. He wouldn’t get much more from that, the photograph could have been taken anywhere in the world. “And Luck?” he asked.

“Shall I arrange a meeting?” she asked.

Mycroft paused. “No. Not yet. Rickard Luck doesn’t even know I exist, as far as I’m aware. Let’s keep it that way until we have more details on Garzone’s death.”

“How many people know about Indigo?” Anthea asked.

“Three. Myself, you and Hadrian’s assistant.”

“Hadrian’s assistant now works in this office.”

Mycroft nodded. “Leave her for now. But if anyone leaked the information to Garzone, it’ll be her, not Hadrian.”

“I’ll go through Hadrian’s tapes again,” Anthea said. “See if there’s something I missed the first time.”

“Do,” Mycroft said. He paused for a moment. “We’re not ready, Anthea. We’re not ready for Luck to know we’re looking into him. Garzone’s death is unfortunate, but it may be a benefit to not have him speaking his mind. As long as Luck doesn’t know who he told.”

Anthea nodded slowly. “Yes, sir,” she said.

Mycroft watched her leave, considering. He’d known Anthea for 14 months, and he had been working on Operation Indigo even before then. He was beginning to wonder if it was ever going to end.

Rickard Luck supplied the United Kingdom with its weapons, making billions of pounds in the process. But Mycroft knew for certain that Luck sold his weapons to other countries and to terrorist organisations. But no matter where he turned, he couldn’t get the proof of his terrorist affiliations.

He was getting closer. But he was not there yet, despite years of trying. With a sigh, he took out the folder containing some of the documents pertaining to Operation Indigo and slid in the photograph of Nickolay Garzone’s body.

* * *

** July 2005 **

**Location: Coeur de Lion Offices, Mayfair, London.**

Mycroft would never understand why a sporting event meant so much to so many people. But as he sat in his office with the television on, he couldn’t help but appreciate the display of patriotism taking place in Trafalgar Square. Hundreds of people were there, waving the Union Flag. All the same, the prospect of London attaining the Olympic games only meant more work for him and his staff.

He returned to his paperwork, twirling his pen between his index and middle fingers as he read through it.

“This will be embarrassing if we don’t win,” Anthea murmured from beside the bookcase, her attention turned to the television.

From across the desk, Mycroft’s driver Jim Braum laughed, flicking open his can of diet coke. He had worked for Mycroft for a two years, ever since he had been forced to leave the army through injury. “Yeah,” Jim said. “Well. It’s the soddin’ Olympics. Second only to the Football World Cup.”

Mycroft frowned, lifting his head from his paperwork for a second to glance between them. They hardly seemed to notice his scathing look as they continued talking.

“The Olympics are better than the football,” Anthea said. “Besides, there’s football in the Olympics.

“Anth, just watch a game of World Cup footy compared to Olympic footy. There’s a big difference in standard.”

“Fine. But it still doesn’t explain why there are so many people in Trafalgar Square hoping London will host the Olympics. Especially if the World Cup really is more important. Can’t they just watch it on the television rather than stand there waving flags?”

Jim shrugged, reaching up to scratch his head. “Nothing like the big occasion. Sport matters.”

“Sport,” Anthea repeated. “Sport matters?”

“Pride matters,” Jim said. “And winning _really_ matters.”

“Right. So because we’re not fighting a World War, we need to watch the swimming and cycling and triathlon?”

“Yep. And even better if it’s all bein’ held in your own country. Why are you so bothered about it?”

Anthea folded her arms. “I’m not bothered by it. I’m perplexed.”

Jim snorted. “Because they care more about the results of the 100m sprint than they do about national security?”

“Well. Yes. People used to march and protest for what they believed in. I used to sit in protests outside the Houses Of Parliament. Now they turn out to see if Britain hosts the Olympic Games. I don’t understand.”

“Sport matters,” Jim said again. “I mean, protest is well and good but-”

“-Will the two of you please cease this inane chatter?” Mycroft snapped at them. They exchanged a look like scolded schoolchildren. “Mr Braum. You mentioned that yourself and your men used to carry out drills during the Iraq war. How many soldiers would be involved?”

Jim shrugged. “Depends on the drill. Could be the whole regiment, could be just a certain section. Those who deal in bomb disposal, that sort of thing.”

“And would you test the weapons you were sent?” Mycroft asked.

“Nah.” Jim chewed his lip before taking a long sip of his coke. “I mean, yeah, you checked them. But you only get one shot with a missile. You trust that they’ve already done the tests when you put your finger on the button.”

“Did you ever have a faulty weapon?”

“Look, Mr Holmes. Due respect, I’m happy enough to chat about the war-”

“-Mr Braum,” Mycroft replied tightly. “Did you ever have a faulty weapon supplied to you by the British military?”

“There’s some things you just live with, Mr Holmes,” Jim said, crossing his arms. “I didn’t come to your office today to bitch about the MOD.” Anthea coughed and Jim shrugged. “All due respect, sir,” he added with a roll of his eyes.

“Why not?” Mycroft asked, frowning.

“Because the MOD’s not perfect. But it was all I had. And it looked after me and my men and women for a long time. If anything’s flawed, it’s the Government, not the MOD. Give the MOD more funding then we’d be hunky-dory.”

“You lost a leg to an IED and then the Ministry Of Defence dumped you into a facility without the appropriate medical care to assist in your recovery," Mycroft reminded him. "They left you with next to nothing, before you checked into a rehabilitation facility for drug abuse. So, tell me, Mr Braum. Just how good was the MOD to you?”

Jim shook his head, pushing his chair back as he stood up. “You’re my boss,” he said, pointing at Mycroft. “But I’m not replying to that. I’m goin’. Before you push me too far." He glanced at Anthea. "Anth. You, me and Loretta still up for drinks later?”

“If we can get away,” Anthea murmured, turning her back to face the bookcase.

“Both of you,” Mycroft snapped. “Just go.”

“With pleasure,” Jim muttered, dropping his empty coke can into the bin and marching out.

Anthea turned to face Mycroft before she reached the door. “London just won the Olympics bid,” she said, nodding her head towards the television.

Mycroft glanced at it and frowned. “Bugger.”

“What do you need?”

“Two people. Get them straight out of MI5. We’re going to have to go through our whole security plan.”

“We’ve got seven years until we need it,” she said.

“That’s seven years of writing it, practising it and changing it, constantly until the day the Olympic cauldron is lit.”

“Doesn’t it make you a bit proud though?” Anthea asked, glancing at the television. “Look how happy they all are.”

Mycroft frowned, watching as people waved their flags. “London was a terrorist threat before,” he replied. “Now it’s hosting the Olympics? The threat level goes up ten-fold.”

Anthea paused for a moment before opening the door. “Very well, sir,” she said. “Very well.”

* * *

The following morning was unremarkable as far as Mycroft was concerned. He woke a few minutes before his 5am alarm. He put his hand down onto it after the first beep and slid out of bed, padding over to his en-suite. He showered and shaved, before taking some time over choosing his suit for the day. A new blue tie matched his mood on that particular morning, accentuated as it was by small bicycles - a token gesture to celebrate the Olympics announcement.

He ate crumpets and drank his mug of black coffee at his kitchen table, the compositions of Claude Debussy coming from the radio.

He was picked up by Jim Braum, who seemed to have forgiven their altercation from the day before. The day’s newspapers were already piled up on the back seat of the car, first editions all. Many of them were the first off the print run, collected immediately and sent to Mycroft’s offices. From there, Jim picked them up and took them to Crusader House.

Mycroft arrived at the Coeur de Lion offices before most of his staff did, although Anthea was already there.

They had a cup of tea each while running through his diary for the day. It wasn’t too busy, and Mycroft planned to take a few hours at the Diogenes during the day to clear his head.

Anthea pursed her lips and typed a few words into her phone. “That’s everything,” she said, signing a piece of paper and sliding it across to Mycroft to do the same. She stood up, putting a folder down onto the table. “These are the reports for the meeting at MI5 this morning.”

She and Mycroft both looked up at the sudden knock on the door. Mycroft frowned. This was the one time in the morning when his staff knew not to interrupt.

Anthea stood up and opened the door to her own PA, Loretta Freeman. “Sorry to interrupt,” she said. “But there’s been an explosion on the underground.”

Mycroft frowned. There had been threats three months ago, but there were men in custody, and anyway, they weren’t plotting a bomb, as far as he was aware.

“Between Liverpool Street and Aldgate,” Loretta added.

Mycroft stood up calmly, walking around his desk. He wandered into the main office where his employees were furiously typing away or on the phones. There was a sense of trepidation and dread in the air. It was serious, whatever had just taken place.

But no one had expected it. No one had predicted it. They’d been unprepared. They’d all missed something. Abject failure.

“It was on the underground,” Anthea said, reading over someone’s shoulder. “There’s been two more explosions, all within 50 seconds of each other. Emergency services are already at the scenes.”

Mycroft pressed his lips together for a moment. “Keep me updated,” he said, before returning to his office. He sat down at his desk and began to scroll through the Watchtower reports prior to this date, trying to work out if anyone should have seen this coming. There were no red or orange alerts to speak of. They’d all missed it. Whatever it was.

It was out of his hands for the moment, all down to the emergency services to clean up the mess, but there would be questions to be answered soon enough. When he had pulled together his secret office, it was to avoid exactly this situation. He had demanded only the very best in intelligence officers and technology.

But now was not the time to lose his temper. He could only try to get to the bottom of it. The meetings and the questions would come.

As it was, that day in July filled everyone with terror - just as those who perpetrated the attacks had intended. Mycroft spent much of the day at the Diogenes when he was finally able to get away from the office. He sat in silence, considering what he’d read on each of the attacks on the underground trains and the bus.

Even through the silence, there was tension in that room. Mycroft recognised those who worked in the Government, and those who had some contact with the secret services. And so every man in the Diogenes felt it. The deaths and the injuries and the complete and utter failure.

They’d all failed.

Too many had already died. Others were in hospitals, some with life-changing injuries. 

They'd missed something, and that was unacceptable. 

Mycroft sat in his chair and read some reports Anthea had printed for him, watching, waiting for more news.

He could see London laid out in his mind like a battlefield. The prime targets; Parliament, Buckingham Palace, the Bank Of England. If someone were to damage those they would incite fear on an unprecedented scale.

And then there were the civilians, so many civilians in the wrong place, wrong time, oblivious to their location within the warzone. And the guards, the soldiers, the policemen. Policemen who took orders like soldiers but weren’t trained to fight or to kill. Unused to this much destruction.

He paused for a moment as he considered that police force. London’s army, while soldiers fought abroad in Afghanistan and Iraq.

Policemen like Detective Inspector Lestrade. He was hardly a soldier, more a protector of the peace. Mycroft could see him in his mind, with that solid handshake. He didn’t see himself as a protector, but he held himself up to those standards. With Sherlock. Why with Sherlock?

Mycroft of course knew how and why Sherlock was special, but it was unusual to have someone else recognise that. There was nothing morally reprehensible or _wrong_ with Detective Inspector Lestrade, not that Mycroft had discovered thus far.

And that made him wrong in every possible way.

That evening, he returned to his office. The questions were being asked by everyone in Government and the media. Answers would be needed by the morning.

“Is everything okay?” Anthea asked at gone 10pm, taking away an empty teapot.

“As well as could be expected. Considering… everything.”

“How long are you saying here?” she asked.

Mycroft checked the time on his pocket watch. “Longer,” he told her. “Go home. There’s no need for us both to be here now.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes,” Mycroft said, clicking on an email as it arrived in his inbox. Another message from another Government minister.

She shuffled her feet. “Mr Holmes-”

He lifted his hand to cut her off. “You did well today. Go home.”

She nodded. “Have a successful evening,” she murmured as she left.

* * *

The next afternoon, he sat in on a meeting with the Head of Strategic Planning for MI6, the Prime Minister, the Commander at the Metropolitan Police and the Secretary of State for Defence.

Mycroft listened as they went through reports of what they already knew, the investigations they’d already carried out.

“What you thinking, Mycroft?” the Prime Minister asked, turning to him. Mycroft couldn’t help but think even at a time like this, he was disgustingly smug.

“That we’re monitoring the threat of future attacks and we’re carrying out all the investigations we can.”

“Al-Queda?”

“Possibly,” Mycroft conceded. “I don’t want to make assumptions, even if they do admit to it.”

“Keep me informed,” the Prime Minister said, standing up. The other men in the room stood up and left. Mycroft followed them out, frowning as the Head of Strategic Planning for MI6, Hugh Seagroves, turned to him. He was educated at Cambridge University, born in Suffolk, but pretended to have been born in London. He had trained for the army, and didn’t get through the first six months. Then he’d tried to become a career politician, and never did well at that either. He had a good mind though. And was happily married - as far as his wife was concerned.

“The PM’s a bumbling idiot,” Hugh muttered as he shut the door.

Mycroft smiled a little. “We all feel like idiots at the moment,” he said.

He and Hugh began to walk down the corridor, nodding at the occasional MP they came across. Mycroft couldn’t ignore the way Hugh craned his neck to look round at a pretty female secretary as they walked past. Mycroft glanced back too. She was a freelance journalist. Oh, there was more to her than met the eye, wasn’t there? And Hugh, like all the others, was oblivious.

“I have had it up to my neck today,” Hugh continued, turning his attention away from the young woman. “Like we should have predicted this, like we have to see and predict everything.” Hugh glanced at Mycroft. “This… you, all those things in your office… We should have seen this coming.”

Mycroft held his hand up. “Say no more,” he muttered. “I’m well aware.”

“It’s not just the fact that people died. If I knew about it, even if I couldn’t stop it, I wouldn’t be so bothered.”

Mycroft raised his eyebrows. “Don’t let anyone else hear you say that.”

“It’s different, if we don’t know about it first, Mr Holmes. People die, it happens all the time.”

“Mr Seagroves. People died. In a preventable attack.”

“What if they did plan this and we missed it?”

“We did miss it,” Mycroft said. “Of course they planned this. But it won’t happen again.”

They stopped as they reached the exit and shook hands. “I’ll be in touch then, Mr Holmes.”

Mycroft nodded. “Of course. Or I shall see you at your dinner party?”

Hugh laughed. “Oh good gracious, is that tomorrow? Thank God my wife’s all over that, let me tell you. Bring that beautiful assistant of yours!” Hugh winked at him as he opened the back door to his car.

Mycroft felt his smile turn into a sneer as he watched the car drive away.

* * *

He and Anthea attended the party at Hugh Seagrove’s home together. They stepped into the ostentatious hallway with its checkered marble floors and followed the music and chatter through to the large living room. Mycroft recognised a few of the people stood around the room.

Hugh was leaning on the fireplace, a brandy in one hand as he spoke to some members of Parliament. Mrs Seagrove spoke to their wives at the other end of the room. Andrew Regis, Shadow Chancellor for Education, was stood awkwardly by the window, nursing his wine. He was a thoroughly incompetent man in Mycroft’s opinion, but easily manipulated. But Mycroft led the way towards a woman sat beside a large oak table with grey hair and wearing a powder blue dress. He was pleased to see Sylvia Ross had been invited. She had been a great spy in her day, but she too had chosen a political career since then. Now aged in her early 60s, she showed no signs of slowing down.

He kissed her hand as she extended it, and she almost blushed. “Mycroft, it’s lovely to see you both,” she said, nodding as Anthea joined them. “Are you well?”

“I am, thank you, Mrs Ross.”

“And Miss Boyette?”

Anthea smiled and nodded. “Yes, thank you,” she said.

“Terrible, isn’t it?” Sylvia said, shaking her head. “The events in London…”

Mycroft nodded. “I know.”

“I hope you’re asking questions, Mycroft. The Prime Minister says the right things, but he cares more about the state of his approval rating than making a true statement on terrorism.” She took charge of pouring Mycroft and Anthea a glass of red wine each as she spoke. “Tell me what you need from me.”

“I’m not sure there’s anything I can ask of you, Mrs Ross. Not at the moment.”

She regarded him for a moment before opening her clutch bag. She handed him a piece of paper with a list of numbers. “Burn after reading,” she said with an amused smile.

Mycroft blinked at her. “I’m sorry?”

“Oh, don’t look so concerned,” she laughed, knocking back her glass and topping it up. “I’m moving offices next month, and these are my numbers.”

“What will you be doing?”

“Financing security projects, will you believe?”

Mycroft frowned. “I wasn’t aware.”

Sylvia laughed. “Well, no, of course you weren’t. I practically created the role myself. I know you financed your Mayfair project yourself. And that’s all well and good, and we are grateful to you. But if you need official Government and Secret Service approval for your work, then you know to ask me, don’t you, dear?”

Mycroft nodded. “I do now,” he said.

Sylvia beamed and patted his arm. “You are a good boy, Mycroft,” she said. She turned to Anthea. “I’m so glad the two of you are still working together. You’re doing good work together, so I hear. Now, run along, you two. Go and make nice with everyone here. You never know when they may be useful.”

With a smile, Mycroft nodded his head and held out his arm. Anthea took it, resting her hand on Mycroft’s forearm as he led her towards Hugh Seagroves.

Mycroft braced himself for Hugh’s distasteful flirting with his assistant as they approached him. The man in question lived up to all expectations. “Anthea! What are you doing with Mycroft still?” he asked, beaming.

She visibility tensed as the man kissed her cheeks. “Busy,” she said.

Mycroft felt his phone vibrate and retrieved it from his pocket. It was a red alert from Watchtower. He showed the screen to Anthea and she nodded.

“We have to go,” Mycroft murmured. “My apologies.”

“Trouble?” Hugh asked.

“I hope not.”

He and Anthea strolled for the exit but each picked up speed as they reached the stairs and went out to the car. Anthea kicked her heels off as they sat down, exchanging them for a pair of flat shoes. “It’s a bomb threat,” Mycroft said, reading the messages. “Birmingham.”

Anthea breathed out as she put her seatbelt on. “It’s never quiet is it?”

Mycroft glanced across at her. “No,” he agreed. “No, it’s never quiet.”

Anthea shrugged and opened the window dividing the front and back seats to speak to Jim Braum. “Back to the Coeur de Lion, Jim,” she said. “Better make it snappy, we’re on red alert.” She closed the window and sat back in her seat. She glanced at Mycroft. “Bloody Olympics,” she said.

Mycroft nodded. “Mmm,” was all he said in reply. 


	4. Making Alliances

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter warning for drug use and a bit of violence.

**July 2005**

**Location: Sherlock’s flat, Southwark, London.**

The wallpaper was coming off the walls, spots of damp clinging to the ceiling. Mycroft turned up his lip, stepping over the dirty single mattress on the floor to walk to the window.

Sherlock was lucky it was warm outside. Lucky since the single radiator appeared to be broken. He shook his head, tucking his hands into his pockets. For someone like his brother, who did have a privileged lifestyle, to choose to live in a place like this was unfathomable. Sherlock didn’t want for money. Mycroft kept his bank account regularly topped up after all.

Mycroft flicked through some of his books, expecting a packet of drugs to fall out onto the floor, though he had only known Sherlock to try cocaine once. Anything he could injct into his veins was more his style. Mycroft checked under the mattress. He checked Sherlock’s sock drawer. Nothing came to light. He felt a sense a brief relief. It was possible Sherlock was getting clean, and Mycroft could only hope upon hope that was the case.

The door swung open, the handle slamming into the wall. “Get out,” Sherlock snarled at him.

Mycroft turned to face him. “Sherlock,” he said with a cool smile.

“Get. Out.”

Mycroft studied him. His coat was missing the top button. His shirt appeared unwashed and unpressed. His hair was greasy. His eyes… constricted pupils. So, he was still using drugs.

Mycroft shook his head. “For goodness sake,” he snapped, taking a step towards him. “What on earth do you think you’re doing?”

Sherlock took a step closer to him, malice in his eyes. “Get. Out. Mycroft. I’m warning you…”

Mycroft raised his eyebrows. “Warning me? Of what, exactly, Sherlock?”

“I do not want to see you. I made myself clear.”

“Then leave London. I assure you, I won’t follow you.”

They stayed silent for a few moments. Sherlock glared at him. “I work here.”

Mycroft snorted. “Work? Running after the police, solving crimes? It’s a dog’s work, Sherlock. Put your mind to good use.”

“Like you, you mean? Putting the world to rights in your cosy office in your unelected position? Playing politics with idiots?”

“I’m doing something useful.”

“You’re just trying to gain power.”

Mycroft shook his head. “I’m not.”

“Yes, you are. That’s all you care about. Now get out of my flat.”

Mycroft glanced around. “It’s hardly what I would call a flat.”

Sherlock stepped towards him. “Out.”

“Sherlock…”

He winced as Sherlock grabbed his wrist, his fingernails digging into Mycroft’s skin. He yanked Mycroft closer, staring daggers at him. He tightened his hold on Mycroft’s wrist, and Mycroft stayed still, waiting for his next move. It wasn’t the first time Sherlock had attacked him while he was high, but he hadn’t done it for a while. “Get the hell out,” Sherlock snarled. And then he pushed him back.

Mycroft took a few stumbling steps backwards before composing himself. He shook his head. “You need me, Sherlock,” he said, walking to the door, rubbing his wrist with his fingers.

“I’ve never needed you, Mycroft,” Sherlock said to his back. “You only destroy everything you touch.”

Pressing his lips together and not rising to it, Mycroft left the room, walked calmly down the stairs and got into his car. He took a deep breath, rubbing his hand against his face. He couldn’t bear it, seeing what Sherlock was doing to himself. He wasn’t sure for how much longer he could torture himself about it and how much more he had left to give. He had long since run out of answers and explanations.

All he could think was that Sherlock truly hated the world so much, he didn’t care if he wasn’t in it anymore.

And then Mycroft really would have failed him and his parents. All of his efforts would have been wasted. It would have all meant nothing.

* * *

**August 2005**

**Location: New Scotland Yard car park, London.**

Mycroft turned his head to gaze out of the window, watching the Detective Inspector through it. He had dark circles under his eyes. A deep frown appeared between his eyes as he saw the car, before he sauntered over, hands in his pockets.

Mycroft opened the back door for him.

“What do you want?” Greg snapped at him, leaning down to peer inside.

“To have a conversation,” Mycroft told him. “Get in.”

Greg snorted as he shook his head, standing back upright. He began to walk away.

“We’ll drive you home,” Mycroft called after him.

“I have my own car,” he replied.

“We need to talk about Sherlock.” He watched as Greg flinched, his shoulders tightening. “Please,” Mycroft added. “We will just drive around the area and then you can drive home in your own car.”

“This better be quick,” Greg muttered, turning round to walk back to the car. “My wife is expecting me home.”

“We need to talk about Sherlock,” Mycroft finished, ignoring him. He despised having to do this, but Greg was a last resort as far as helping Sherlock was concerned.

“What about him?” Greg asked as he got in and closed the door.

“He hasn’t been helping on cases this last week. It concerns me.”

Greg shrugged, dark eyes watching Mycroft intently. “He turned up high to a crime scene.”

Mycroft felt his chest tighten and he exchanged a look with Anthea. He knew she was already trying to find Sherlock’s location. “So you have ended all contact with my brother?” Mycroft asked. Pity.

“I didn’t say that.”

Mycroft narrowed his eyes. “Then what are you saying?”

“I told him I’d throw him out on his ear if he ever showed up at a crime scene high again. But I also told him that if he can get clean for a month, I’ll get him access to Bart’s.”

Mycroft raised an eyebrow. “You would let him do forensic work?”

“I’d let him help,” Greg corrected. “If I found someone willing to put up with him.”

Mycroft leaned back against the chair, reaching for his pocket watch to check the time. It was approaching 7pm, and he knew Anthea was getting impatient.

“I need to attend a meeting,” Mycroft said. “But if your… association with Sherlock is to continue, and I do believe that is for the best, then I would like to spend some time informing you about my brother.”

“I’ll find out for myself, thanks,” Greg said, a false smile on his face.

Mycroft pulled a face. “As _honourable_ as that sounds, I would prefer to fill in the gaps Sherlock would never tell you. It would be of some help.”

Greg hesitated for a moment, reaching up to rub his face. He seemed resigned to his fate. “Alright,” he said. “I can do tomorrow.”

Anthea held up her phone so Mycroft could glance at his schedule. “You can do after 7pm, sir,” she said.

“Between seven and nine would be satisfactory for me,” Mycroft said, turning back to Greg. “I will take you out for dinner.”

“I don’t need dinner,” Greg replied shaking his head.

Money, Mycroft thought, was an issue for the Inspector somewhere along the line. He had a fairly nice flat, pulled together on a teaching and police salary. But he hadn’t had a lot of money as a child, that was clear.

“No, I’m sure,” Mycroft said. “But after a hard day, I do. And I have a flight to catch at 11pm. It would be most convenient for me to have a conversation with you over dinner. Where shall we pick you up from?”

Greg appeared to tense even further. “You can pick me up from work,” he said, looking out of the window and only starting to relax when the car finally stopped back in the car park.

“Very well,” Mycroft said. “See you tomorrow, Detective Inspector.”

He watched as Greg got out, shaking his head and marching towards his own car. Mycroft pursed his lips. He was used to not being well-liked, but it seemed the Inspector resented him more and more every time they met.

But, when dealing with Sherlock, what else could Mycroft possibly do?

* * *

“Remind me of tonight’s plans,” Mycroft said as he sat in the back of the car, reading his emails.

“Meeting with DI Lestrade over dinner,” Anthea informed him. “Then we’re going straight to Gatwick Airport. We have to take a flight to Dublin and then change to take another to Russia.”

Mycroft shook his head. “Some of these measures are ridiculous.”

“Hugh Seagroves made the request to change at Dublin,” she said.

“Because the man is paranoid. Very well.” Mycroft turned his head to gaze out of the window.

“Ah,” Anthea muttered, staring at her phone.

Mycroft frowned, turning to her. “What?”

“Nothing to be concerned over.”

Mycroft raised his eyebrows. “Anthea. You and I are standing on thin ice after the London attacks, and we can’t take any cracks or we’ll both sink. What’s going on?”

“Give me more time. I’ll tell you after your meeting. We’re here.”

Mycroft watched out of the window as DI Lestrade marched towards the car, mobile phone in hand. He pulled the door open, collapsing into the seat. He nodded across at Anthea and muttered a ‘hi’.

“Hello,” Mycroft murmured, raising his eyebrows.

Greg turned his attention back to his phone and Mycroft did likewise. It appeared Greg wasn’t in a mood for a conversation. Mycroft confirmed Sherlock’s movements throughout the day and gazed out of the window for the remainder of the silent journey. “We’re here,” he eventually said, straightening his tie.

“Looks a bit posh for me,” Greg muttered, glancing down at his shirt. “I don’t think they’ll let me in.” Mycroft turned his gaze and raised one eyebrow. No, Mycroft thought, if Greg had been gone to the restaurant with anyone else, they really wouldn’t have let him in. Not in that shirt. It looked as though he’d had to borrow it from someone else.

“Nonsense,” Mycroft said, opening the door and rising from the car. He inhaled into the cool hair, striding towards the restaurant.

“She not coming?” Greg asked, nodding towards the car.

“It’s her night off.” Mycroft gave him a cool smile. “Supposedly. Come.” Mycroft nodded his head as a member of staff opened the door to him, the delicate flavours floating through the air. Mycroft inclined his head to the maitre d’ who began to lead them towards his usual table. Mycroft slid his coat off, holding it out for her to take.

“Come here often?” Greg asked.

“Not very,” Mycroft said, taking a seat. He took hold of his napkin and folded it onto his lap. “I have brought a few colleagues here for meetings.”

“And what exactly do you work as?”

“I hold a small position in the British Government.” He glanced around, taking in the people sat at the various tables. Thirty-three people in total, but no one he recognised. “Are you willing to share a bottle of wine?” he asked. “Do you have a preference?”

“Er, yeah. Wine’s fine. I’ll drink whatever colour, I’m not fussy.”

“The Pahlmeyer Proprietary, 2004,” Mycroft requested, not consulting the wine list. “I trust you are still stocking it?”

“Yes, sir,” the maitre d’ said. “But we do have the 2005.”

“No, the 2004 will be more than adequate. Thank you.”

The woman nodded. “Yes, sir,” she said, before taking her leave.

Mycroft nodded towards the menu in Greg’s hand. “I recommend the duck,” he said. “Although I had the lamb the last time I was here and it was exquisite.”

Greg pulled a face. He was studying prices, concerned. He’d clearly never been one to have a lot of money. “I can’t really…” he started.

“Don’t worry about the cost, I know how much you earn and I know how much I earn. I brought you here, it is my treat.”

“I don’t want charity.”

“By looking after Sherlock for no reward, you’re practically giving charity,” Mycroft said. “Please. Enjoy yourself. I will be abroad for around three weeks and this could be the last good meal I have for a while.”

Greg blinked for a moment and tilted his head. “Are we having starters?”

Mycroft paused before breaking out into a smile, nodding. “Please,” he said, gesturing towards the menu. “Anything you’d like.”

They both looked up as the waiter brought the wine over. “We do have the 2005, sir,” he said.

“The 2004 is perfect.”

“Would you like to try it?”

“Please,” Mycroft said, watching as the bottle was poured. He lifted his glass, inhaling deeply before raising it to his lips and taking a sip, letting the rich flavours settle on his pallet. “That’s fine, thank you.”

The waiter nodded his head and walked away.

“You know wine then?” Greg asked, his elbows on the table.

“My father knows wine,” Mycroft said. He glanced down at the menu, though he already had a fair idea of what he was going to choose.

A few moments later, the bread and butter was being carried over in a basket and they were ordering their food.

“So,” Greg said, leaning back in his chair as he lifted his wine to his lips. “Not that I mind, but why have you brought me here?” He sipped his drink. “Holy shit, this is…” He stopped himself, as though suddenly appreciating their location. “Sorry.”

Mycroft chuckled. It was unusual that anyone relaxed around him. It was strangely refreshing. “It’s to your liking?” he asked.

“Are you kidding me?” Greg asked. “The wine I drink tastes like piss compared to this.”

Mycroft smiled for a moment, taking a piece of brown bread and tearing it apart. “I believe your question was why have I brought you here?” Greg nodded. “This is the least I could do for what you’ve done for Sherlock the past few months.”

“Are we going to talk about Sherlock all night?” Greg asked.

Mycroft frowned. Well, yes, that was why they were here…

“I mean, I want to talk about Sherlock,” Greg continued. “And okay, I have a lot of questions. A. Lot. Of questions. But I don’t want to spend all night talking about him. I spend too much time at work thinking about what I’m going to do about him.”

“That all sounds very familiar.”

Greg grinned. “So, let’s make a deal. I imagine talking about Sherlock is going to take a long time. But once we get dessert, we talk about something else.”

“Your deal is acceptable,” Mycroft said, watching him with interest.

“Let’s get Sherlock out of the way then,” Greg said as he began to butter his bread. “I don’t want to know any big secrets. He can tell me himself.”

“I’m surprised you haven’t looked his record up already,” Mycroft said. Although he wasn’t sure there would have been much information for Greg to find.

“When you came into my office that day, I could have looked him up. I was about to. I didn’t.”

Mycroft glanced up at him, pausing for a moment as he pressed his lips together. “You’re an honourable man, Inspector,” he said.

“Greg.”

“You’re an honourable man. Greg.” Greg glanced down at his bread, taking a bite as he fidgeted in his chair. “You should learn to accept compliments," Mycroft said, watching him.

“How long has Sherlock been an addict?” Greg asked instead.

Mycroft took a bite of his own bread. In truth, he had no idea. It was some time between Mycroft leaving for America and Sherlock starting university, he thought. “Hard to say,” he said. “I believe it started at university, but I was otherwise engaged during that period.”

“Otherwise engaged?”

“I was abroad.” Mycroft put his knife down, watching Greg from across the table. “Sherlock does not regard himself as an addict. He believes he can pick it up and put it straight back down whenever he wants. He is not as in control as he would like to think he is.”

“Where’s he getting the money from?”

“I don’t know,” Mycroft admitted. “It wouldn’t surprise me if he’s sitting in pubs challenging patrons to bets. I have tried frequently to give him money but he will not accept it. I top up his account, but he hasn’t touched it in the last six months, as far as I can tell.”

“Where he’s living is disgusting,” Greg said.

Mycroft sighed. “Is he still living on that mattress in a hovel near the Thames?”

“Yeah. I wanted to tell him to pack his stuff - what there is of it - and come stay on the sofa. And I’d offer it. If he got clean.”

“If seems like a lot of things would improve for Sherlock if only he got clean. Why are you so willing to engage with him?” Their conversation paused for a second while the waiter put their starters down on the table. Greg looked up at the waiter with his sculpted cheekbones and blond hair. Greg’s pupils dilated, his cheeks flushing just a little. Mycroft frowned. Greg found the waiter attractive. Greg was… bisexual. Well, that was unexpected.

“This is so good,” Greg said after taking a bite of his brochette. Mycroft smiled and had a bite of his risotto. “I pulled him in as a witness,” Greg continued. “That was all it was. But he’s had some interesting insights on my cases. Thought of things I would never had thought of.”

“While I’m sure that’s true on occasion, I’m quite sure you would have got there eventually.”

Greg opened his mouth, pausing for a second. He struggled to take a compliment, Mycroft noticed. Like somehow he felt he didn’t deserve it, wasn’t worthy of someone’s kind words. There was something in that, Mycroft mused. Something in his childhood, in the way he hesitated over saying second his name when he introduced himself to people, the way he didn’t trust those surrounding him, as though unsure he really belonged and… oh. Well. Mycroft shouldn’t have missed those signs. He was adopted. Fostered, perhaps, and then adopted.

Mycroft frowned. He should have asked Anthea, he was sure she would have worked it out. Or at least she would have recognised Greg’s struggles with being complimented. She was far better at psychology than he was, after all.

“That might be true,” Greg finally said and Mycroft had to blink for a moment, realising he’d been so caught up in deducing the man that he’d forgotten what they were talking about. “He’s proving to be very helpful.” Ah. Sherlock. “And I feel… overprotective. I don’t know why.”

Mycroft narrowed his eyes a little, masking his confused expression behind his wine glass. “Sherlock doesn’t really have any friends,” he countered.

“I didn’t say I was a friend.”

“But you are concerned for his wellbeing?”

Greg hesitated and looked away from Mycroft as he finished his own starter instead. “Yeah. Yeah, I guess I am a bit concerned,” he finally said. “He’s like no one I’ve met before. And if I could give him a ring when I have a tough case and have him help, that would be great. But I can’t trust him when he’s high.”

Someone was concerned about Sherlock. And it was a genuine concern, something almost parental. Well, wasn’t that a revelation?

“Do you think your threat will work?” Mycroft asked. “That he will stop if he has the opportunity to work at Bartholomew's?"

“What do you think? You know him better than me.”

Mycroft almost snorted at that. “I hope it works,” he said softly. “I would love nothing more than to see him use his mind in a beneficial way.”

“What happened between you two?” Greg asked. “Sherlock said he ‘deleted it’.”

Family turmoil, distrust, broken promises, failures… “Honestly?” Mycroft said, knowing nothing he was about to say would be honest at all. “Nothing particular happened. Sherlock and I have never had the warmest of brotherly relationship, it’s most unfortunate. I would do anything for him. Nonetheless, I worry about him and try to do my best for him. Unfortunately, he does not always wish for my help or expertise.”

“You know I won’t report back to you. I need him to trust me.”

Mycroft raised his hand. “I realise that now. I trust you to look out for Sherlock. That is the biggest compliment I can give you.”

“What do I need to do?” Greg asked.

“I think you’re doing just fine,” Mycroft said. “I think the promise to take him to Bartholomew's was a good one. And if he cannot make good on his side of the bargain, well, I will just need to consider an alternative.”

“I’ll do what I can,” Greg said, but Mycroft couldn’t help but feel Greg would offer far more than he should. There was something in his nature. Something inherently protective. Generous. Mycroft hadn’t even realised there were still men like him left, men who would do something out of goodness, and not because they had an ulterior motive. Mycroft paused. No, that was wrong. There was an ulterior motive somewhere, and Mycroft was certain he just hadn't worked it out yet.

Their main courses were put down in front of them - Mycroft’s steak and Greg’s duck.

Mycroft sipped his wine. “It appears we have finished talking about Sherlock ahead of schedule,” he said.

“It does,” Greg agreed, cutting into his duck. “This looks incredible.” Mycroft watched as Greg took a bite of his meat, his eyes fluttering closed for a second as he savoured the taste. “Tastes amazing. Thanks for this.”

“Not at all,” Mycroft said, beginning his own food.

Greg topped up both their glasses. “So, where’d you go to university?”

“Oxford. Did you go?”

“Nottingham,” Greg replied. “Were you a rower?”

Mycroft blinked at him for a moment before chuckling. “Do you really imagine me in a boat?”

Greg grinned at him. “It was the only thing about Oxford I could think of.”

Mycroft laughed and shook his head. “No, I was not a rower.”

“Didn’t get into any trouble at all?”

Mycroft smiled. “I didn’t say that. How was Nottingham?”

“It was bloody good fun,” Greg said. “All the time. I didn’t get a great grade at the end of it. But I had a lot of fun.”

“Did you always wish to be a policeman?”

“No, not really. I didn’t know what I could do. But when I left uni, it seemed like the best option. Turned out I wasn’t bad at it. What do you do in the Government, exactly?”

“A small role in the Department of Transport.” What a well-rehearsed lie, that was.

“And you’re going abroad for three weeks?”

“Other countries have transport,” Mycroft said. He smiled in apology. “I’m afraid I cannot talk about my work.”

“If you told me you’d have to kill me?” Greg grinned.

“I believe you are referencing James Bond. Unfortunately that isn’t the case.”

“Shame,” Greg said. “You seem like a James Bond to me.”

“That is the most extraordinary thing anyone has ever said about me.”

“And I already accused you of being a rower. Where did you grow up?”

“Not in London. In the country.”

“And your parents?” Greg asked. 

Mycroft mulled the question over as he chewed his food. Parents and family mattered to Greg Lestrade. Because something had happened to his birth parents, long before he’d been adopted. “Continue to live in the country,” Mycroft said. “In a cottage. They left our ancestral home some time ago.”

“They wealthy?”

“We wanted for nothing.”

“I take it you already know about my folks. You and Sherlock seem to have some sort of intuition about these things.”

“It’s not intuition, it’s deduction." Mycroft waited for a split second before adding: "I could find out what happened to your birth parents. If you wanted.”

“So could I. Cop, remember? I nearly did a few times. I had the computer up and ready but… I couldn’t do it. Either they both died in a horrible accident and had no other family and so I ended up… well, that’s the best case scenario. I don’t want to think about the others.”

“But you were fostered?” Mycroft asked. 

“When I was 12. I took their surname when I was 17. Alice, my foster mum, she died of cancer the same year. Dad moved back to France when I was 20 to be with his family. We speak a bit, but not much. I met Caroline a few years after university, we married pretty young. Her especially, her parents weren’t thrilled.”

“But you’ve never had children.”

Greg shook his head. “Not for a lack of trying. We stopped four years ago. Started retrying recently.” But with the hesitance in his voice, Mycroft felt there was more to it. “You’re not married?” Greg asked. “Kids? You've got a ring.”

“No, my work takes up a considerable amount of time.”

“If it wasn’t for meeting Caroline so young, I think I’d have been the same,” Greg said. “She wants kids. But. I could live without it.”

“You’re satisfied.”

“I love my work. I love my wife. I don’t really feel like I need a lot else.”

Mycroft finished his food. Intriguing man, this Greg Lestrade. And certainly a useful ally in taking care of Sherlock. “You do not have my contact number,” Mycroft said. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a card and small pen. On it, he wrote his work number and passed it over to Greg.

“Do I need to burn this after reading?” Greg asked, grinning.

Mycroft smiled. “That will not be necessary. But this is my direct number, and I do not give it out to just anybody.”

Greg pulled his phone out, saving it. He called the number and Mycroft felt his phone vibrate in his pocket. “Now you’ve got mine,” Greg said. “I won’t contact you every time Sherlock gets into trouble. But if there’s something you need to know, I’ll let you know.”

“It is impossible to explain how much I appreciate that gesture.”

“Is there anything I need to be aware of?” Greg asked.

“No,” Mycroft said. “Nothing you haven’t realised already. But if you require anything, please contact me. I realise Sherlock can be… difficult.”

“That’s an understatement,” Greg said, pouring the last of the wine. He frowned for a second and looked up at Mycroft. “I thought tonight was going to be terrible. I tried very hard to get out of it.”

Mycroft gave him a knowing nod. “It did occur to me that there must be many better ways for you to spend your evening. But I’m grateful you agreed to come.”

Mycroft felt some movement over his shoulder, and he turned as Anthea reached their table. She nodded at him, pressing one finger to her watch. Mycroft reached into his pocket, counting out some cash and putting it onto the table. “I must get to the airport. Thank you for a pleasant evening. I will be in touch.”

“Cheers for the food.”

Mycroft smiled across at him. “You are very welcome. Please, stay and finish the wine. Goodnight. Greg.”

“Mycroft.”

Mycroft followed Anthea out to the car, collecting his coat on the way. He slid into his seat, accepting the papers she handed to him. “What’s happening?” he asked, his eyes skimming the words.

“An air-to-surface missile has been dropped on Georgia. No one’s claiming responsibility but…”

“It’s Russia,” Mycroft murmured, glancing at the diagrams and maps.

“Probably. It didn’t explode.”

“No casualties?”

“None at all.”

Mycroft nodded. “The plan remains the same. We fly to Russia for the trade agreement meetings. But get the Secretary for Defence on the phone. Tell him we may need to issue a statement if Georgia blames Russia and then blames the rest of the world for sitting idly by.”

“We are sitting idly by.”

“Have you got pictures of the missile?” Mycroft asked, ignoring her statement.

Anthea nodded, picking up a few more papers. “I don’t know what you’ll be able to see. It’s all just shrapnel.”

“I need that intel on the weapons provided to Russia by Rickard Luck.”

“Already on it,” Anthea replied, retrieving her laptop from its case. Mycroft gazed out of the window as Anthea made contact with the Defence Secretary, all the while typing with one hand on her laptop.

They rushed through security at the airport, waiting in the First Class Lounge. Mycroft was skimming through Anthea’s files, checking up on Watchtower as he paced between the seats.

“The pills are in your briefcase,” Anthea murmured, pulling her black heels off and exchanging them for a pair of red flat shoes instead.

“I can’t take them on the Dublin flight,” Mycroft murmured. “I won’t be awake enough to make the transfer.”

Anthea glanced up at him. “You’re going to fly without taking your pills?”

“It’s only an hour’s flight.”

“In a torture chamber. That was how you described them last time.”

Mycroft frowned, gazing out of the windows to where aeroplanes were being refuelled outside. “It’s fine,” he muttered, not entirely believing his own sentiments.

Those aeroplanes did look like torture chambers. Little chambers flying thousands of feet over land and oceans with no escape. Confined spaces with low ceilings and a lack of leg room. His throat was already dry. He wasn’t afraid of flying, only the enclosed space.

Mycroft took a deep breath. His phobia hadn’t defeated him yet. It wouldn’t defeat him this time. Steadying himself, he walked towards the air hostesses and handed over his passport, ready to go into battle.


	5. Positioning

**August 2005.**

**Location: Moscow, Russia.**

**Meeting: Oil negotiations.**

“I don’t care what the papers say,” the Russian official said, slamming his fist on the table. “Or what the Georgians say. The suggestion we sent a missile into Georgian territory is an absolute lie. I am insulted anyone would suggest that.”

Mycroft tapped his pen against his pad of paper, trying to turn the subject back to oil for the umpteenth time. “On the subject of price,” he murmured, but he was cut off again.

“Why would we attack Georgia? We like Georgia.”

“Mr Kalninš,” Mycroft said, clenching his jaw. “We’re talking about oil.”

“No. We are talking about missiles.”

Mycroft frowned. “Why?” he asked.

“Because your Defence Secretary is sitting with our President talking about missiles. And I will not talk to you about oil when you are not here to talk about oil.”

Mycroft tried not to roll his eyes. “I am here to talk about oil,” he said slowly in Russian, emphasising every word. “Not weapons or missiles.”

“Lies,” Mr Kalninš spat. “The first thing you asked when you landed here was missiles.”

Mycroft shook his head. “No. I believe I said, good evening.”

“This meeting is over,” the man said, pushing his chair back and standing up. “Until your national newspapers print the truth about the missile, we will not talk about anything more.” He retrieved his paperwork. “I hope you have a satisfactory stay, Mr Holmes.” He nodded politely to Mycroft and the other people sat around the table. And with that, he marched out, his own men scuttling out after him.

“Shoot me,” Mycroft muttered, glaring at his retreating back. “Shoot me, then stuff me and mount my head on a wall. And then encourage the Prime Minister to remember the consequences of sending people to Russia to meet with bloody idiots.”

Anthea glanced down at their papers. “Well. It could have gone better,” she said dryly, standing up.

Mycroft rubbed his face. “This isn’t my remit. This was not what I signed up for.”

“When you’re the Prime Minister’s new favourite diplomat, this is what happens.” Mycroft stared at her for a moment, but rather than back off, she simply raised one eyebrow and shrugged. “This is ridiculous,” she said. “I agree with you.”

“The Prime Minister’s testing me.” Mycroft stood up, piling paperwork into his briefcase. “But I can’t do it all.”

“Yes, you can,” Anthea said, taking his briefcase from him and reordering the papers before handing it back. “We need a new system. We need something to run parallel to Watchtower. Something keeping an eye on international reports and diplomacy.”

Mycroft frowned. “Get Danny Finck on it,” he said. He headed for the door. “And find someone who can get me a decent glass of whiskey by the time I get to my hotel room.” He opened the door and stepped out into the hallway.

Mycroft stopped in his tracks. Stood against a wall with a bottle of tonic water in hand was weapons manufacturer Rickard Luck. He didn’t pay Mycroft any attention. He was too busy flirting with the receptionist to do that.

Taking just a moment to compose himself, Mycroft marched past him. So Rickard Luck was in Russia. That was hardly surprising. As far as Mycroft was aware, the man spent as little time at his own headquarters as possible. He had other people manufacturing the weapons after all. His role was all about placating his potential clients.

Still, Mycroft thought, as he sat in the car taking him to his hotel. It was unnerving to have the man he was investigating nearby. He’d done well so far to avoid him. Hadrian had met him a few times, Mycroft understood, but only under very specific conditions. And Rickard Luck turning up unannounced was not part of the plan.

He continued to feel unnerved as he drank a glass of whiskey, sat on his bed while he tried to read a book. He couldn’t concentrate. His mind was racing.

With terrorist threats and diplomatic negotiations and worrying about Sherlock, he couldn’t find a specific thought to focus on. Everything was jumbled and racing. He tried to make sense of it all. But it was too much. Far too much all at once. All he could do was lie down and try to relax. He wrapped his arms over his chest and wished he would fall to sleep soon. He hoped it would get easier. No man could do it all.

* * *

** September 2005 **

**Location: Coeur de Lion offices, Mayfair, London.**

If keeping an eye on Sherlock also involved keeping an eye on the people he associated with, then that was the way it was. Sherlock knew it was the case. He expected nothing less. Oh, he resented the surveillance. He always had.

Sherlock was mummy’s favourite, and he’d always craved her attention. But when Mycroft was 14, it had become his responsibility to take care of Sherlock for a short time. Sherlock, aged seven, only resented that. And so he had done ever since.

Mycroft wasn’t spying on Greg Lestrade. Not in the strictest sense. He was merely carrying out an investigation into a potential threat. Greg Lestrade, despite his cool demeanour and seemingly open heart, was a potential threat. He wasn’t perfect. His marriage was coming apart at the seams and for a man who appeared to care so much about people’s lives, he didn’t seem to care much about his wife.

So when Mycroft received the pictures of Caroline Lestrade leaving another man’s building with flushed cheeks, he wasn’t exactly surprised.

He wouldn’t tell the Inspector. That wasn’t his responsibility. But it was a piece of information to file away. He put the pictures through the shredder and returned to his work, catching up with some of MI5’s latest investigations.

Anthea knocked and waited her customary four seconds before walking in. She hovered by the desk before sinking into the chair opposite it, folding her hands in her lap. She waited. Mycroft made her wait. She was impetuous at times. He was working it out of her, bit by bit.

Eventually he raised his eyes from his laptop and nodded to her.

She paused for a moment. “She’s a teacher,” Anthea said. “Caroline Lestrade, I mean. They’ve been married for 16 years. We found their wedding announcement in a copy of the Ealing Times.”

“How long has the affair been going on?”

“I don’t know.”

“And what has he been doing with Sherlock?”

“Sherlock has access to St Bart’s Hospital,” Anthea told him. “It’s restricted access, under specific conditions.”

“What conditions?”

“The head technician just wants him to do a good job and not cause too many problems. So far, so good.”

Mycroft frowned. “Really?” he asked.

“Really. Well. A few problems. Minor details.”

“Anthea.”

“Someone quit.”

Mycroft nodded. “That doesn’t surprise me.”

“Do you need anything else?”

Mycroft shook his head. “No. Thank you.”

She smiled at him and left.

* * *

** Location: New York, New York, United States of America. **

**Meeting: World Summit.**

For three days, Mycroft worked on improving his contacts with diplomats and foreign secretaries. He met a number of dignitaries, exchanging phone numbers and email addresses.

The more time he spent with the Prime Minister, the more he disliked him. But he knew they’d have to work together even more in the future.

And then there was Andrew Regis. He was the Shadow Chancellor for Education, but he had a tendency to try to stick his fingers into all sorts of pies. And though his party was not in power, he acted as though they were anyway.

But of course, he leaked his own party’s secret memos to the press. And when he didn’t know how to take it back before it was printed, he stood in Mycroft’s office, shuffling his feet and begging for Mycroft to do something to make it all go away.

Mycroft rung up a contact at The Daily Mail and swapped the memos for another story on the Russian missile, promising they would allow the memos to be printed at a more convenient time. Andrew Regis told Mycroft he owed him.

Mycroft knew he wouldn’t forget it.

* * *

**October 2005.**

**Location: Crusader House, Pall Mall, London.**

Mycroft was half-way through a book when his home phone rang. He stood up and padded over to the table, lifting it up. “Yes?” he answered, frowning.

“Is that anyway to answer the phone, Myc?” his mother scolded.

“Mummy,” he muttered. “Good evening.”

“Well, at least you did answer the phone,” she said. “I’ve only been trying to get hold of you for three weeks.”

Mycroft slid into his chair, taking hold of his glass and sipping his whiskey. “How can I help?” he asked, ignoring her comments.

“It’s not as though I have an ulterior motive,” she said. Mycroft waited for it. “How’s my boy?”

There it was. “I know as much as you do, I imagine,” Mycroft told her. “He’s still living in that atrocious flat. But he’s working with police from New Scotland Yard, solving crimes.”

“Solving crimes?”

“Mmm. Yes, I know.”

“With his intelligence?” his mother asked.

“Mmm,” Mycroft agreed. “I did try to recruit him to do some work with me but… well, working for me is his idea of hell.”

“He’s a free spirit. He walks his own path.” Mycroft stayed quiet. “Mycroft. Are you taking care of yourself?”

“I’m fine. How is father?”

“He’s going golfing. In France. Would you like him to bring you back some bottles of wine?”

“Yes, please.”

“We’ll put them in the cellar at Oak Manor. Is that alright with you?”

“You’re going to the house?” Mycroft asked. Well, his mother hadn’t been there since… well. Since _then._

“No. I’m not. Your father is. We have some… documents we need to retrieve.”

“I can retrieve them for you,” Mycroft said.

“No, Mycroft, you have far too many things to do than run around after your parents. Myc, you really do need to keep an eye on Sherlock. He had a cough when I spoke to him last. It sounded awful.”

“It was probably a cold.”

“He doesn’t take care of himself.”

Mycroft sighed. “I’m aware.”

“Please, go and speak to him will you?”

“It’s not as though I don’t try, mother. But he wants nothing to do with me.”

His mother tutted. “I wish I could talk some sense into the two of you. You both live so close, you should be taking care of one another. Look, will you call him?”

“Fine,” Mycroft muttered. “I will make contact with him.”

“Thank you. Goodnight.”

“Goodnight.” With a sigh, Mycroft text Anthea’s assistant, asking if she would set up a meeting with Greg Lestrade for him. Sherlock didn’t want to see him, and he didn’t really want to see him either. So for now, Greg Lestrade would make the ideal go-between.

* * *

Greg Lestrade was keeping Mycroft waiting deliberately. He’d been waiting in the car for three minutes while Greg stood there with a cigarette in hand, gazing into the distance. No one smoked a cigarette that slowly unless they were stalling. And didn’t he look pleased with himself? Like a dog who had just stolen a joint of meat from the dinner table…

Mycroft glanced at the cigarette in Greg’s hand, wishing he could have one himself. Mycroft frowned. Well, he shouldn’t have one. But still… it was tempting.

Amused, Mycroft pressed the button to roll down the car window. “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?” he said.

Greg grinned. “Yeah, little bit, not gonna lie.”

With a shake of his head, Mycroft rolled the window roll back up. He pulled his leather gloves on and opened the door. He held his hand out and Greg handed him the packet.

“Terrible habit,” Mycroft said as he took out one of the cigarettes. It was far more tar content than he would have chosen for himself, but just the smell of cigarettes in the air was making him crave one.

He put the cigarette between his lips and watched as Greg flicked on the lighter, lighting it for him. Mycroft took a drag, closing his eyes. “Yes,” he breathed out. “Thank you.”

“Every one I smoke is always the last one,” Greg said with a grin as he stamped the cigarette out.

“Yes, I find I have a certain lack of self-control around cigarettes.”

Greg raised his eyebrows, grinning. “There’s something you can’t control? I can’t believe that.”

Mycroft paused, exhaling. He felt a twist in his gut just for exposing a weakness so easily. With a frown, he stamped his cigarette out. “Where would you like to go this evening?” he asked.

“You’re letting me decide?”

“I inconvenienced you,” Mycroft said, leading him to the car. “I thought it appropriate to let you decide.”

Pizza. Greg Lestrade chose pizza. Even Jim Braum couldn’t hide his surprise as Mycroft told him to head to the closest Pizza Express. Mycroft blinked as his phone rang and he held it to his ear. “Yes?” he asked.

“Sir, I know you have company, so you don’t need to speak," Anthea said. "We have evidence that Rickard Luck has flown to Iran. I need to know if you want me to send a SIS officer to follow him or not?”

Mycroft paused, frowning. If they required a warrant then they would have to go to the Secretary Of State, and Mycroft didn’t want to have to explain why they were following the weapons supplier for the UK’s armed forces. “No,” he said. “Not officially.”

“Unofficially?” Anthea asked. “There are two people who work for you with the necessary qualifications for this kind of mission.”

“Send them both,” Mycroft said. “Thank you.”

“Thank you, sir.” Anthea hung up and Mycroft smiled at Greg.

“Apologies,” he said.

Greg shook his head. “No worries,” he replied. “Work gets crazy right?”

Mycroft nodded and followed him into the restaurant. One glance at the menu confirmed it was a popular chain restaurant. It was relatively low-cost, but it had an open kitchen where it was possible to see the chefs cooking the meals from fresh.

He glanced down at the menu. Greg said he would eat a Sloppy Giuseppe, and Mycroft could only hope that title wasn’t indicative of what the rest of the food would be like. He thought perhaps this would be the last time he would allow Greg to choose a restaurant. Not that he was intending for there to be many more meals in their future. He wasn’t going to make a habit of it.

“So. Why did you want to meet?” Greg asked, titling his head.

“Sherlock spoke very briefly to our parents on the phone. They said he sounded quite ill and asked if he was looking after himself. Of course, I haven’t been near him in months, so this was news to me I wanted to know if it was just a cold.”

Greg didn’t meet his eyes as he fiddled with his napkin, as though weighing up how much to admit. “I saw him about two weeks ago, and he had this cough,” he said slowly. “And he looked a bit pale and stuff, but I just thought he was a bit under the weather. But I saw him tonight and he’s still got the cough. He said he’s fine. I don’t know. He didn’t seem better than the last time I saw him.”

“He doesn’t live in the most hygienic conditions.”

“No. I was going to suggest he looked for a new place, but he just brushed it off. Without setting fire to the place, I don’t know how to convince him to leave.”

“I don’t suspect arson would be looked upon particularly favourably," Mycroft said, amused.

Greg grinned at him. They ordered their pizzas and Mycroft sampled the wine he’d been given. He pulled a face as it didn’t settle on his palette as well as he was used to.

“What really did happen between you and Sherlock?” Greg asked.

Mycroft tensed a little at the question, wondering just how long he could avoid giving a proper answer to the question. “I wish I knew,” he lied. “I don’t believe it was any particular event. Perhaps I was out of the country for too long. He isolates himself because he knows he ostracises everyone he meets. He can learn everything about a person and doesn’t think it keep it to himself.”

Greg rolled his eyes. “He told me my wife’s cheating on me.”

“I am sorry,” Mycroft said, though he was surprised he hadn’t been able to deduce that Greg knew. He wasn’t as bothered by the revelation as Mycroft thought he might be. Not outwardly, at least.

“It’s not true,” Greg said.

Mycroft narrowed his eyes. “No, it is,” he said, risking another sip of his wine. “I’m just sorry you heard it from Sherlock.” He paused. “If it’s any consolation, most people wouldn’t be able to work it out.”

That didn’t seem to offer much of a comfort to Greg as they began to eat their dough ball starters. Mycroft watched as Greg dipped the dough into the garlic butter using his fingers. Mycroft frowned at him and cut his own up with his knife and fork, waiting for Greg to eat first before he followed suit. The food was a little better than Mycroft expected. Not that he’d tell Greg that. He wasn’t going to encourage trips to Pizza Express, after all.

“Have you ever been married?” Greg asked.

“No, I have never been married.”

“Not interested, or…?”

“I’m not interested in having a wife, no.”

“Husband then?” Greg asked.

For a moment, Mycroft didn’t know what to say. If he wasn't interested in keeping Greg as an ally he would have told him marriage was outdated, pointless and the failure of his own marriage indicated it wasn’t valued in the same way as it once was when dowries were involved. But he tried to answer with a little more compassion. “I’m yet to find someone who I could spend my life with,” he replied. “But I’m not lonely,” he added quickly. “My work takes up an awful lot of my time. As does keeping an eye on my brother.”

“Bloody Sherlock. I’ve got to admit, I don’t really understand what’s going on here.”

Mycroft glanced up from his plate. “Going on?” he repeated.

“It’s like you’ve employed me to look after your brother. I think you should give it a go some time.”

Mycroft despised how much those words stung. As if he wasn’t trying hard enough already. As though someone thought he’d given up - or worse, hadn’t even bothered. “I care about Sherlock,” he murmured.

“Maybe you should tell him that rather than me.”

“He doesn’t listen to me.”

“He doesn’t really listen to me either,” Greg said as he forced a smile.

Mycroft had another bite of his starter, pondering how little anyone understood their relationship. It was unusual, based more upon intelligence and verbal sparring than much else nowadays. But then, Mycroft had never been Sherlock’s favourite brother… “I worry,” he finally said. “Since we were children, I only wanted the best for him.”

“He’s lucky to have a brother.” Mycroft glanced up at Greg. Being an only child didn’t suit him, that was clear. He was a personable man and craved human interaction. “You’re analysing me,” Greg said. “Stop it.”

“I don’t need to ‘analyse’ you, Greg. I’ve had you worked out from the first day we met."

Greg folded his arms over his chest. “Oh yeah?”

“Yes. You’re not particularly complicated.”

“Sometimes I don’t know whether I like you or not.”

Mycroft smiled. “You enjoy puzzles.”

Greg grinned. “That’s obvious. I’m a policeman. Of course I like puzzles.”

“You prefer to work on paper than on a computer.”

Greg snorted. “Oh come on, I bitch about technology all the time. You can do better than this.”

Mycroft sat back in his seat, resting his elbows on the table and his chin on his hands. "You have never particularly wanted children because they remind you of being an unhappy child. You dislike enclosed spaces. You settle for the circumstances of your life. You don’t form attachments to people mostly due to your background of living in care homes and with an assortment of foster parents. Sherlock reminds you of your own failures and shortcomings and every case you never solved. You are not entirely heterosexual. You are on occasion reckless, impatient, and do not think much about the future. You are a workaholic. When you close your eyes at night you are haunted by the cases you couldn’t solve. And yet you resent those who care too much. You think them weak.”

It only took a second for Mycroft to realise he perhaps said too much. Greg reached forward, taking hold of Mycroft’s wine glass and downing its contents. “You are on occasion incredibly impulsive,” Mycroft added, watching him. “And you do like me. And you like Sherlock. Because you don’t have any friends and we are far more interesting than your colleagues. Your wife is the only person you let get close to you. And even she knows very little about you. Please do correct me if I got any of that wrong.”

“How did you know I wasn’t totally straight?” Greg asked.

“Ah, that took a little longer, I admit,” Mycroft said. “The waiter at the last restaurant we attended together. Your face displayed all the classic signs of attraction.”

Greg shook his head. “You know what I think, Mycroft? I think you don’t have any friends either. I think I’m the closest thing you’ve got.”

Mycroft pressed his lips together. As true as that might be, it wasn’t as though having friends was something he needed. Not in the way Greg did. Acquaintances and trusted colleagues were enough. “How do you come to that conclusion?” he asked.

“You only talk about Sherlock. You won’t or can’t talk about your work. And you let me bring you to Pizza Express.” Greg stood up. “You got one thing wrong.”

“What was that?”

“I’m not haunted by cases I didn’t solve. It’s just one case.” And with that, he strolled towards the toilets. Mycroft leaned back in his chair. He was… unsettled. Uneasy that someone had seen right through him.

Friends only served as walking, talking weaknesses. And he did not have enough time to maintain a friendship. He had no inclination to do so. He didn’t dislike Greg Lestrade though. But that was the highest compliment he would extend to him.

And with a small shake of the head, he chose to stop wasting time thinking about him.

Greg returned to the table and they began to eat their main courses, Greg eating his pizza slices with his fingers while Mycroft used his knife and fork.

“I’m an unlikely ally for you, Greg Lestrade,” Mycroft told him after a while. “I realise what you are doing for Sherlock is against the law. But I will do all in my power to enable work with him can continue.”

“And just how much is it in your power?”

“Look after Sherlock.”

Greg nodded. “I am. I’ll get him out of that house, alright? I don’t know how because he’s a stubborn bastard, but I’ll sort it.”

Mycroft paused for a moment. “I forgot something,” he murmured.

“Forgot what?”

He looked up at him, holding his eyes. “You are incredibly generous," he said, full of sincerity. "And a far better man than Sherlock deserves.”

Greg’s cheeks went a light shade of pink as he ducked his head to focus on his food. “I don’t really know what to say to that.”

“Take the compliment, Greg,” Mycroft said softly. “Just take the compliment.”

“Trying.”

“Good.”

They glanced at each other and Greg caught the waitress’ attention. She carried over the bill.

“Let me,” Greg said as he pulled out his wallet.

Mycroft opened his mouth to protest and then nodded, conceding. Greg was a proud man, one who wanted to feel like he could pay for things himself. Mycroft wasn’t going to discourage him.

“My driver will take you home,” Mycroft said. “I have a meeting very close to here.”

“Right. Cheers.”

They stood up and put their coats on before walking out until they were stood side by side on the pavement.

“So. Cheers,” Greg said. “Been a good meal.”

Mycroft nodded once. “Right,” he said, not sure what else to say. His food had been adequate at best. And the wine was appalling. “Yes. Thank you.”

“I’ll let you know what happens with Sherlock’s new home then.”

Mycroft nodded again. “Please.”

“Night.” Greg got into the car and Mycroft stood watching as it pulled away.

“Everything alright, sir?” Anthea asked, watching him.

Mycroft frowned for a moment. “Yes, I think it is,” he said, but something he couldn’t quite place was playing on his mind. Following Greg and Sherlock’s every move was counter-productive. Perhaps he owed them both the benefit of the doubt. “You can reduce Sherlock’s surveillance level.”

Anthea frowned. “Sir? Are you sure?”

“Yes,” Mycroft said. He was certain Greg Lestrade would do his job in protecting Sherlock, and would leave Mycroft’s staff to focus on more important matters like Rickard Luck and goodness knows what else the Prime Minister tossed his way. He paused, glancing down at the pavement. It was the right thing to do, he decided. “Yes, I’m sure.”


	6. Black Sites

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: References to torture, specifically waterboarding.  
> Stuff in italics is a flashback. (I told you there would be some).

**October 2005.**

**Location: Crusader House, Pall Mall, London.**

After showering and dressing, Mycroft collected his post. It was a Saturday morning, and his 36th birthday. He'd spent an extra hour in bed, savouring the warmth and relaxing. He paused for a moment as he skim-read the front pages of the newspapers. There was nothing much of interest, but he would read The Times later. He put them down on his lounge table to return to later.

He sat down on the settee, using a letter opener to slit open the envelope to his single birthday card. His parents had sent him a voucher for a suit shop he used, and he tucked it away in his wallet. He stood the card on the fireplace. He frowned for a moment, casting his eye over the walnut mantle clock and scraping some of the dust over the top of it with his finger.

After a quick breakfast of crumpets and coffee, he walked down the road to the Crusader House car park, collecting his own car and driving to Mayfair.

“Mr Holmes, what a pleasure,” his favourite tailor said as Mycroft entered the small, dark tailoring shop tucked away on the corner.

“Mr Lewis,” he said, his eyes skimming over the shelves, brushing his fingers against the soft fabrics. “I’d like two new suits. Something in the black and… well, inspire me.”

The tailor laughed, walking over to him. “You’ve lost weight, Mr Holmes, looking at you. I think I’ll need to re-measure you.”

Mycroft frowned and glanced down at himself. “Have I?”

“I’ve got a good eye. I’d say you have. It’s been… nine months since you were last here? You bought a tie. But it’s been much longer than that since I last fitted you for a suit.” Mr Smith pulled out a variety grey fabrics, some darker than others. “I can rarely get you out of your pinstripes, but you should give grey a try.”

Mycroft shook his head but pointed to one of the lighter fabrics anyway. “Fine,” he said. “That one will do.”

“An excellent choice. Now, I will need to measure you.”

Mycroft nodded and followed him through to the back, taking off his jacket and waistcoat.

“Busy at work, Mr Holmes?” Mr Lewis asked as he began to measure his neck.

“Mmm. It never ends. How is business?”

“The same as ever, Mr Holmes.”

“I noticed the new suit shop down the road.”

“Poor standards, Mr Holmes," his tailor said. "And I’m not just saying that because they’re my competition. I popped down to be measured and… well, I was less than impressed.”

“I’ll bear that in mind,” Mycroft muttered, retrieving his waistcoat as Mr Lewis finished. “Have you got anything new in?”

“I have some ties which will go with the grey suit, but it might be better to choose those when you are fitted.”

Mycroft nodded. “Very well. Thank you, Mr Lewis.”

The tailor smiled at him as Mycroft wrote out a cheque. “Thank you, Mr Holmes.”

Mycroft nodded and walked out of the shop. He went to an antique shop next, buying a few new cufflinks and tie clips. And then he visited a tea room, where he treated himself to a cream tea as he sat by the window and observed the families walking past.

“Are you using this chair?” a woman asked as she approached his table.

Mycroft frowned and glanced at the empty chair opposite him. “Oh,” he said. “No, no, please take it.”

She smiled, almost in sympathy, as she thanked him and dragged it over to another table for her friend to sit on.

Mycroft frowned to himself and retrieved his phone, running through his emails. Not a single text message to say happy birthday. He didn’t need any of that sentimental nonsense. Though it might have been nice to hear from Sherlock. He almost snorted to himself. Oh, hell would freeze over before that ever happened.

Anthea, then, perhaps. She was very good at reminding him of colleagues’ birthdays and such. Ah, but on her birthday, Mycroft recalled reminding her birthdays were the celebration or commiseration of another year passed. He told her it didn’t require banners and constant insincere greetings of ‘happy birthday’.

Right, well. That would go some way to explaining why Anthea had ignored the day too.

After eating his final cake, Mycroft stood and paid for his lunch. He got back into his car and drove home to spend the day with some music and books. So, it wasn’t a terrible birthday. Not really.

* * *

**November 2005.**

**Location: Outside Lublin, Poland.**

Anthea looked uneasy as she turned her mobile phone off, showing the blank screen to the CIA official as she did so. He nodded to her and took the phone, putting it into a sealed plastic bag.

“We’re Secret Service too,” Mycroft muttered, studying the man. “Whatever happened to friendly relations between the UK and the United States?”

“You’re on the list, Mr Holmes,” the man said. “But I’m afraid your PA isn’t.”

Anthea pursed her lips, but kept quiet. She was far, far more than a PA and she despised anyone who said otherwise. But she often encouraged the title as it meant they always underestimated her.

Mycroft watched out of the window as they drove past the woods and the barren landscapes. They hadn’t seen another vehicle for at least an hour. “We really are in the middle of nowhere,” he remarked.

The CIA official laughed. “What were you expecting, exactly?”

Mycroft shook his head. “To be honest, I haven’t been told a lot about what to expect.”

The official shrugged. “We’re here,” he said. The car stopped outside of a white brick building. It was only one storey high, surrounded by thick walls with barbed wire. He and Anthea exchanged a look as they stepped out onto the rocky path.

Mycroft blinked as the Deputy Director for the CIA strolled towards him, holding his hand out. “Mycroft!” he beamed with white teeth. “It’s been… oh, well, it’s been years.”

Mycroft forced a smile and shook his head. “Mr Goff,” he said, still stunned to see him. “It must have been… 1996?”

Mr Goff stared at him. “’96?” he repeated. “No. No, it must have been after that. Was it really ‘96?”

Mycroft paused, trying to remember when he had worked in the United States. “I went to America in 1994. I was there until 1996.”

“Ah,” Mr Goff said, his face suddenly turning serious, recalling the circumstances. “Yes, well. We all miss Jimmy," he said.

Mycroft nodded, tensing a bit at the mention of Jimmy Dine’s name. Trying to shake the tension in his chest, he turned to face Anthea. “Allow me to introduce Anthea Boyette, second to me in my… department. Anthea, this is Toby Goff, Deputy Director for the CIA.” They shook hands and Mr Goff began to lead them towards the building.

“We’ve got a site like this in Thailand, one in Afghanistan,” be began as he unlocked the door. “There’s a small centre in Guantanamo Bay as well. And then there’s… eight altogether in Eastern Europe.”

“I’m sorry, Mr Goff,” Anthea said. “Eight of what?”

Mr Goff grinned at her. “Well, you might just call them black sites.”

A black site. Mycroft knew of them, though he hadn’t been aware the CIA had been setting them up in former Soviet republics in Eastern Europe. “How old are they?” he asked.

“This one is four years old. But the building itself is from the Soviet era.”

Mycroft frowned, glancing around at the plain white walls. “And just who have you been bringing here?”

“Al-Qaeda captives for interrogation. Who else? It’s the war on terror, Mycroft. Desperate times and desperate measures.”

Mycroft frowned, studying the desks and chairs in the first room they entered. “I presume the Polish intelligence agencies have given their approval?”

Mr Goff nodded. “Yep. All done with approval of our friendly allies.”

Mycroft frowned, shaking his head. “Before we go any further… why exactly are you telling me this?”

“Quite a few years ago, GCHQ were planning to shut down an intelligence-gathering centre in Cyprus. The NSA really didn’t want them to because Cyprus was useful for gathering intel from the Middle East. So, GCHQ was kind and kept it there. The NSA hasn’t got a lot to offer GCHQ as a thank you. So, the CIA’s saying thanks instead by offering you folks use of our black sites.”

Anthea blinked at him. “Use of the black sites? For terrorists? For… interrogating terrorists?”

Mr Goff nodded. “You got it, Anthea.”

“Who knows about this?” she asked. “In the UK?”

“Just your Prime Minister and head of MI6, as far as I know. Maybe your Home Secretary, but I’m not sure.” Mr Goff paused for a moment. “Look. This isn’t an ideal. We debate the existence of these all sites the time. But… it’s what we’ve got. And if you need them, _really_ need them, they’re there for you.”

“Who have you kept at black sites?” Anthea asked as Mycroft studied the computer equipment. 

“Major terrorism suspects. And some with a more limited intelligence value. Ones who we’ll send onto other services elsewhere.”

“Is there anyone here now?”

“Not currently,” Mr Goff said. “Would you like a look around?”

Mycroft frowned, turning his attention back to his former boss. “Yes. Very well.”

He and Anthea were shown the cells. The interrogation room. The CCTV cameras. And in the corner of one interrogation room, there was a cloth sitting in a metal bucket. The bucket was empty, but Mycroft had seen that before in places like this and he knew without asking that it was used for waterboarding suspects. Torturing suspects. It created a sensation of drowning and the mere sight made Mycroft’s blood run cold.

He knew that fear. The terror radiating through you. The overriding horror that right there, with a wet cloth over your mouth and the water in your lungs, you were going to die. You were going to drown. 

Toby Goff turned to him, about to say something, but Mycroft turned and stalked out of the room, shaking his head in disbelief. Only minutes later, making his excuses, he said goodbye to Mr Goff and he and Anthea got back into the car with the CIA official to be driven back to Warsaw. 

He stared out of the window, lost in his own thoughts and memories as he tried to come to terms with what he'd seen. He knew Toby Goff knew all about waterboarding and what it felt like. He knew Toby Goff appreciated just how horrific it was, that it had happened to men under his own protection. And that he actively encouraged the damned torture made Mycroft sick to his stomach. 

He and Anthea stayed quiet as they left the scene and went back to the hotel. “Would you use that building?” Anthea finally asked as they ate some steaks for dinner.

Mycroft frowned. He glanced up at her. She was concerned. She knew how to make difficult decisions but… torture in secret facilities? It went far beyond what she'd signed up for. Mycroft sighed, knowing his answer was yes. Perhaps he wouldn’t use the same techniques but nonetheless… “Do you want me to answer?” he asked.

Anthea paused for a moment before shaking her head. “No,” she said. “No, it’s fine.”

Mycroft nodded and they both returned to their meals.

* * *

**June 1995.**

**Location: Pakistan.**

_“Boom boom boom,” he was singing. “Now let me hear you say way-oh.” He was nodding his head to time to the beat as he watched a computer screen, flicking between CCTV camera angles._

_Mycroft stood in the doorway watching him in disbelief. He crossed his arms. “What is this noise?” Mycroft asked, staring at him._

_“It’s not noise, it’s the Outhere Brothers,” Jimmy Dine said with a wide grin, turning round to face him. “Boom Boom Boom.”_

_“Hardly an appropriate song under the circumstances.”_

_“Ah, come on, Myc. Myc, my man. Enjoy a bit of base. Let me hear you say way-oh!” Mycroft stared at him and Jimmy laughed, brushing a hand through his dark hair. “Spoil sport, Mycroft. You ruin all my fun.” Jimmy turned the music down a fraction, leaning back in his chair with his arms behind his head. “So. What brings you down here to the beating heart of the operation?”_

_“Toby Goff is calling a meeting.”_

_Jimmy snorted. “Yeah? Well take some notes and feed it back to me. I’m not leaving ‘til I track Hilel Klahr down. I’m gonna see him any second, I reckon.”_

_“I doubt it,” Mycroft said. “Your intelligence was flawed.”_

_Jimmy laughed and turned back to his screen. “Nope. Wasn’t flawed.”_

_Mycroft frowned at him. “Yes. It was. He was a liar and he lied to you to get a good deal.”_

_“Nope.”_

_“Mr Dine-”_

_Jimmy held his hand up, pausing the music. He turned to Mycroft, a serious expression on his face. “It’s Jimmy. Seriously? How many times, Myc?”_

_“Mycroft.”_

_Jimmy grinned. “You and your British ways. Liven up a little.”_

_Mycroft shook his head. “Toby Goff is-”_

_“-Calling a meeting. Yup. Got it. How old are you, Myc?”_

_“Mycroft,” he muttered. “Why is that relevant?”_

_“Curious.”_

_“I’m 25.”_

_“Hm. Good for you. You’ve done well to get here then. Must have been good if you’ve been recruited by the CIA as a freelancer. But I’ve got a tip for you, Myc. Learn to understand people. When you push them to the very, very edge, they’ll do anything. And they stop lying.” Jimmy turned back to his screen, flicking through the cameras again. “Oh, boy, I’ve got him.”_

_Mycroft took a step closer. “What?”_

_“Hilel Klahr. Right here.” Jimmy pointed to the screen. “Look, see. In the middle of that market place. Just like my source told me he would be.”_

_Mycroft frowned and walked over to the screen. He squinted until he could make their suspect out._

_“See?” Jimmy said with a wink of his crystal blue eyes. “I’m older than you. I’ve got that experience.”_

_“And what do you intend to do when he walks out of that market place and you lose him?”_

_Jimmy grinned and reached for his pager. “Here’s the signal,” he said, typing in a quick code. He patted the chair next to him. “Come watch.”_

_“The meeting-”_

_“-Will have to wait. Sit.”_

_With a heavy sigh, Mycroft took the chair beside him and watched the screen. Jimmy switched cameras while they followed Hilel Klahr through the busy market._

_“There’s our men tracking him” Jimmy murmured, as two men marched through with a purposeful stride. “Moving, moving… Shit!” he exclaimed, as Klahr walked out of view of all their cameras._

_“What?”_

_“I’m out of focus. Damn!”_ _Jimmy tapped his fingers against the desk, turning his attention to the phone._

_Mycroft stared at him. “Well,” he said, standing up. “Thank you for the lesson. It has been… educational.” He rolled his eyes and turned towards the door. He stopped just as the phone rang._

_Jimmy answered it. “Yuh huh? Excellent. Good work, boys. Bring him in! Yeah, I’m dead jealous. You boys get all the fun. How about next time you bring me along, huh?” Jimmy laughed. “Later.” He put the phone down and turned to Mycroft. “Boom, boom, boom. And we’re bringing in Hilel Klahr.”_

_Mycroft nodded. “Fine," he said, his voice harsher than he'd intended. "Congratulations.” He reached for the door._

_“What you doing for dinner?” Jimmy asked._

_Mycroft frowned, not turning around. “I don’t know.”_

_“Have it with me.”_

_“No. Thank you.” He turned the handle._

_“Myc. I insist.” Mycroft turned to face him, eyeing him. And Jimmy grinned, his posture open and honest. “But if it’s a no, then I’ll wait for another night. We’ve got another six weeks here after all.”_

_Mycroft shook his head. “I’ll let you know what Toby Goff says at the meeting.”_

_Jimmy nodded. “You do that,” he said. “Oi, Myc?”_

_“Yes?”_

_“You did good. We’d not have got Klahr without the work you did this week”_

_Mycroft nodded, managing a half smile. “Yes,” he replied. “Yes, I know.”_

_Jimmy Dine’s laugh and the resumption of his singing carried Mycroft all the way down the corridor._

* * *

**November 2005**

**Location: London.**

Mycroft was en-route for his weekly meeting with the Prime Minister when he read the news report.

_Bus stop woman was shot dead_

_A woman who was found dead at a bus stop in North London was shot in the head, an autopsy has confirmed._

_Police are appealing for information about the woman, who is yet to be identified._

_She is believed to be white and aged between 38 and 45._

He frowned for a moment. Shootings in London happened on occasion, but usually the victims weren’t white women. And on top of that, she was shot in the head. No where else, if the news report was to be believed. It sounded like a contract killing.

Curious, Mycroft took a photograph on his phone of the report and text it to Anthea, asking if she could find out from the police exactly what had happened.

When he got back to the office, Anthea had copies of the police report detailing the discovery of the body and witness reports. There had been no blood at the scene, and all indications were that the body had been moved there.

Investigating officer: Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade.

“Are they any closer to identifying her?” Mycroft asked.

Anthea shook her head. “No,” she said. “I’m waiting for Bart’s to send the reports through. There should be some pictures and the autopsy report in there. And any toxicology reports as well.”

Mycroft nodded. “Who did you ask to get the police report?”

“The Met’s Commander,” Anthea said.

“Good,” he said. He was glad she hadn’t gone to Greg. He expected the man would have put up a fight. “Let me know when you get the details from Bartholomew’s. It’s probably not in our remit, but I’m just… curious.”

Anthea nodded. “Yes, sir,” she said. “Is there anything else?”

Mycroft paused for a moment. “The Prime Minister’s considering an amendment to the Terrorism Act. If you could get hold of a copy of it in its current form, I’d be grateful. He wants me to have a look at some of the wording to see if the plans are actually feasible.”

Anthea smiled at him. “Consider it done,” she said.

Mycroft spent several hours going over the papers until Anthea returned with the reports from St Bartholomew’s. Mycroft took them from her, hardly reading the words as he went to turn to the pictures.

He sat back in his chair, his eyes widening as he stared at the dead woman’s face. She was blonde, with a long nose, full lips, and a beauty spot on her cheek. Mycroft swallowed. “I need to speak to the Commander at the Metropolitan Police,” he said, his cheeks paling. “Right away.”

Anthea stared at him, looking down at the photograph. “Sir?” she asked.

“This is Tatiana Garzone,” Mycroft muttered, pointing at the photograph. “Nickolay Garzone’s wife.”

They exchanged a look and Anthea immediately picked up the phone to call the Commander. Mycroft lifted his hands to his steeple for a moment.

Nickolay Garzone was dead. His wife was dead. The connection with Rickard Luck was too much of a coincidence to be ruled out...

“The Commander will meet with you,” Anthea said, pulling him out of his thoughts. “What do you need?”

“Get everything you can find about the Garzones. And bring me every document we have pertaining to Operation Indigo.”

When Anthea left the room, he forced himself to clear his mind. He needed to retrace their steps and go everything in the operation all over again, from the beginning. And he would all start by getting the files from New Scotland Yard.

* * *

The Metropolitan Police Commander shook his hand out when Mycroft reached his office. Mycroft smiled tightly at him. “Thank you for meeting with me at such short notice.”

“No problem. Take a seat. What can I do?”

Mycroft sat down, glancing up at the aerial photograph of London above his head. “I am working on an investigation which crosses international borders. The woman… the woman found by your Homicide and Serious Crime Department is known to me.”

The Commander nodded. “Alright.”

“I think her death may be pertinent to my investigation. And I need to take all of the documents relating to the investigation.”

“And if I refuse?”

“I’m not above taking this higher.” Mycroft reached into his briefcase and retrieved the paperwork. “If you could sign this, I’d be grateful.”

The Commander glanced at him before picking up a pen. “I don’t like you lot,” he said.

Mycroft smiled. “I know,” he murmured.

“Where’s the one who usually comes? Brown hair, pretty?”

“Anthea.”

“That’s her.”

Mycroft nodded. “I know the officer involved in the case, I thought I might see him myself.”

“Lestrade? Yeah. He’ll hate you taking this out of his hands. He’s got a good solve rate. In fact, look at this…”

The Commander turned to his computer, spinning it round so Mycroft could see the screen. “So, if I type in the department’s name, up pops all their statistics. Lestrade’s leading the most improved department in the Yard. I wanted to do some sort of announcement but I don’t want to jinx it.”

Mycroft nodded, flicking his eyes over the tables and graphs. “It’s a significant improvement,” he agreed.

“Yeah. Not been long since he was in the job either. But Lestrade won’t like this. He’s a good egg.”

Mycroft took the papers back from him. “I know.”

“He’s the most incorruptible cop I’ve ever met,” the Commander said as he stood up, smiling across at Mycroft. “So best of luck with that.”

Mycroft smiled and shook his head. “I’ll be fine,” he murmured, sliding the papers into his briefcase. “Have a good day.”

“And good luck with the case.”

Mycroft nodded and left his office. He walked through to the Homicide and Serious Crime Department, nodding his head to PC Donovan as he went past. She frowned at him, leaning back in her chair to say something to another Constable.

Mycroft knocked on Greg’s door, and took a step in before the man had even had a chance to invite him.

He glanced down at Greg as he shut the door. The man was sat at his desk, tired circles under his eyes. And a wedding ring missing from his finger. “Oh, I am sorry,” Mycroft said with genuine sympathy.

Greg frowned, and looked down at himself, patting his shirt.

Mycroft shook his head. “You didn’t do anything to give it away,” he said. “But you aren’t wearing your wedding ring.”

Greg sighed. “Yeah. Last night.”

Mycroft took a seat on the other side of the desk, resting his hands on it. “I am sorry,” he said, and found he genuinely felt it too.

“Sixteen years,” Greg muttered. “Sixteen bloody years and she just grabbed her bag and went. I’m not even surprised. Actually, I’m glad. I mean, how long did I put up with her cheating? Wish I’d confronted her when I got the chance.”

Mycroft offered him one nod of his head, but he didn’t know what else to say. He’d said ‘sorry’ already. And he wasn’t going to walk over and pat him on the shoulder. And people didn’t open up to him about their personal lives. That just… wasn’t the way of it.

“Sorry,” Greg said. “I’m done. You don’t want to listen to my crap.”

“On the contrary. I wish I had something appropriate to say.”

“Yeah. Yeah, me too. Not you. I wish I had something appropriate to say. What do you want anyway?”

Mycroft hesitated for a moment. “If this isn’t a good time, I shan’t impose.”

Greg shook his head. “Impose all you want. I need the distraction.”

Mycroft nodded, opening his briefcase. “I’m afraid I’m here on business. Your team found the body of a Russian woman at a bus stop two days ago.”

“Uh. Yeah. Yeah, they did. What about it?”

“You need to stop looking into it. I am here to take the files from you.”

“No way,” Greg said, crossing his arms.

“It will not go onto your department’s statistics, if that’s your concern. I really must insist.”

“And I really must have proof.”

Mycroft reached into his briefcase and slid the papers over to Greg. Greg studied them for a moment and then shook his head. “I don’t like the Government messing in my cases,” he said. “I don’t like the Government mucking in with the police, full stop.”

“I know.”

“It feels dirty.”

“It isn’t.”

“Then why am I doing this?”

“Because your Commander told you to. And because I came in person to offer my sincere apologies I must take this case from you.”

Greg snorted. “And let me guess. You don’t normally come in person?”

Mycroft smiled. “I detest field work. Thankfully, it seems to be decreasing. And believe me. This visit is very much beneath me.” Greg glared at him. “Except for the fact it’s you. And because I think we have found a mutual respect for one another, I thought it only appropriate I saw you myself and explained.”

Greg reluctantly handed the files over. He eyed Mycroft curiously when he didn’t leave.

“I’m awaiting for a phone call to say the files have been deleted from the computer,” Mycroft told him. He took his phone out of his pocket, checked he had no messages and then put it down on the table.

“You’re really going to stay here until you get a phone call?” Greg asked.

Mycroft nodded. “That’s correct.”

“You know I’m pissed off at you right now, yeah?”

“Yes, that’s quite clear.”

Greg turned to his computer, ignoring him. Mycroft glanced around the room and pursed his lips, frowning. He felt… sorry. And he needed Greg on his side. “Would you like me to make it up to you?” he asked.

Greg stared at him. “Why?”

“I assumed you might like to share a dinner some time. Not to worry if that isn’t the case.”

“No,” Greg said. “That would… I’d like that.”

Mycroft smiled. “Excellent,” he said. “It will have to be in a fortnight’s time, I’m afraid.”

“I can wait,” Greg said.

Greg offered to make them both a coffee, and left the room to get another mug. Mycroft blinked as his phone rang and answered his. “Mycroft Holmes,” he said.

“It’s Anthea. The files are deleted.”

“Thank you.”

“No problem.”

Mycroft hung up and tapped his fingers against Greg’s desk. He began to stand up to leave and then paused. Greg had just broken up with his wife. And Mycroft didn’t have another meeting until later that day. He felt he owed it to him to stay for the coffee at least. He sat back down, crossing one leg over the other as he waited for the other man to return.

Greg made them each a drink when he got back and smiled tiredly at him. “Thanks,” he said. “For coming by rather than send a minion.”

“I think they’d take great offence at being referred to as minions.”

“Fine. Underlings.”

Mycroft laughed, shaking his head a little.

“So, when you’re back from wherever, where are we going for dinner?” Greg asked, eyes sparkling with good humour. “Pizza Hut?”

“I believe it’s my turn to choose. Are there any cuisines you don’t enjoy?”

“Long as it’s got meat on it, I’m pretty easy.”

Mycroft watched him for a moment, glancing down to his ring finger. “What are you going to do?”

“Do?”

“About your marriage.”

“I dunno. Throw myself into my work, I guess.”

Mycroft nodded. He was sure had their positions been reversed, he would have done the same. “But you knew it was coming.”

“Yeah,” Greg confirmed. “Yeah, I knew.”

Mycroft paused for a second. He knew loss, but he didn’t know this kind of loss. When the person who was gone was still very much alive. “I wish I could offer you some sort of advice, but I’m afraid I have very little experience of these matters to draw upon," he said.

“It’s alright,” Greg replied. “I wouldn’t know what to say either.

Mycroft glanced up as PC Donovan walked past the glass, clearly curious about their context of their conversation. “Right,” Mycroft said. “My apologies. Back to work.” He stood up and walked for the door.

“Don’t you need to wait for a phone call or something?” Greg asked.

“Oh, the files were deleted while you were in the kitchen,” Mycroft told him. “Take care of yourself. Good day, Greg.” Mycroft smiled at him and left the office. He nodded at Sally as he walked out of the building.

As soon as he sat down in the car, he began to read through everything the police had so far. It wasn’t much. It wasn’t enough. Frustrated, he asked to be driven to the Diogenes so he could think. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And somewhat inappropriately, this was the good ol' 90s song Jimmy Dine was listening to: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EycbMnKNXzQ


	7. Compassionate Leave

**December 2005.**

**Location: Edinburgh, Scotland.**

The Prime Minister was sharing a bottle of red wine during a lunch break with the First Minister of Scotland. They were laughing together, discussing rugby.

Photographs of Poland’s black site lay on a table between them. Laid out as though it wasn't some shameful secret.

Mycroft sat in the third chair around the table, nursing the same glass of whiskey he’d had for over an hour. He leaned forward, collecting up the pictures and slipping them into his briefcase.

“Did we come to some sort of arrangement then?” the Prime Minister asked, topping up the wine glasses.

“Yes,” the First Minister said. “The CIA can use Glasgow International and Glasgow Prestwick. Not a problem.”

“Always knew I could rely on you.”

Mycroft stayed quiet, listening as the elected officials agreed to conspire with the USA with torturing terrorism suspects. He looked up as Anthea walked in, carrying a few newspapers for him. He smiled up at her and accepted them, half-listening to the politicians as they discussed tennis and the Olympics.

* * *

Mycroft had almost reached the doors to the Scottish Parliament when he got the call from Greg to tell him Sherlock had been taken to the Royal London Hospital. Mycroft felt the all-too-familiar terror in his chest, the gnawing certainty that his brother was surely going to die this time. He’d survived the drugs far too many times already. His luck was running out.

Mycroft hung up the phone and turned to Anthea. “Get a ‘plane. We have to go back to London. Sherlock’s in hospital.”

Anthea looked sympathetic for a second before she nodded and took hold of her phone.

Mycroft collapsed down in one of the benches outside, rubbing his face. Sherlock, he thought. You complete fool. How much more could he do? He had thought Greg’s cases would provide enough stimulation for his mind, or that Sherlock would simply be more careful.

He was silent on the aeroplane, staring out of the window and down at the clouds. He was breathing deeply, trying to ignore how restricted the space felt. He looked up as the aeroplane phone was held out to him.

“It’s Greg,” Anthea said.

Mycroft nodded and took the phone. “Greg. How is he?”

“Stable. Intensive care. He took heroin mixed with strychnine.”

Mycroft blinked. “I’m sorry?”

”He did it standing outside the hospital, fuck knows why. He admitted himself straight after apparently.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Neither do I. Where are you?”

Mycroft checked the flight map on his screen. “Flying over Scotland. I should be an hour at most. Will I see you there?”

“Yeah. I’ll be here. He’s on a drip, breathing stuff. Doctors said they treated him quickly enough.”

Mycroft paused. He wanted to stay on the line but he didn’t think Greg could offer him much else. He definitely couldn’t offer him any comfort. “I must go,” he said. “Please keep me informed.”

“Promise,” Greg said before hanging up.

Mycroft handed back the phone and tilted his head back, closing his eyes, trying to drown out the rumble of the aeroplane. He tried to imagine a field and not the horrible confined chamber.

“Mr Holmes?” Anthea murmured.

Mycroft hummed in response.

“Is there anything I can do for you?”

Mycroft shook his head. “No,” he murmured. “No, there’s not. Thank you.”

“They are going to postpone the meeting, but I don’t know for how long.”

Mycroft nodded. “I know. And I’m going to be with Sherlock as long as it takes.” He paused, frowning. “Can you look up strychnine for me?”

Anthea immediately turned to her laptop. “Just leave it with me,” she said.

Mycroft just closed his eyes again, trying to block out the noise and the tension in his chest. It would be 10 hours until the drugs were wiped from a person’s system Anthea murmured minutes later. Mycroft checked the time on his pocket watch and nodded.

* * *

**September 1996.**

**Location: King’s College Hospital.**

_His parents were sat at Sherlock’s beside by the time Mycroft arrived, his mother still with eyes red from crying. They were holding hands, united. Mycroft stood in the doorway, still feeling drowsy from the sleeping pills he’d taken for his flight from Washington to London._

_His mother stood up as soon as she saw him there, walking towards him and pulling him into a hug. Mycroft frowned a little, patting her back, finding it had been too long since since he’d been hugged by a family member and he’d forgotten how to respond._

_“What happened?” he asked his father over her shoulder._

_“Heroin, apparently,” his father murmured, reaching out and stroking Sherlock’s arm. “He’s been taking it for… for a long time, the doctors think.”_

_“Heroin?” Mycroft stared at him, and his mother nodded and returned to her seat. He hadn’t known. He didn’t understand. He knew he’d been away, and he’d been away for a while, but heroin use was obvious. It was inconceivable that no one knew. “Heroin.”_

_“Yes.”_

_“Did you know?” he asked, staring at them._

_“No,” his mother muttered. “If I knew who first gave it to him… I don’t even know what I’d do.”_

_“Why did no one know?” Mycroft repeated, trying to stay calm. He’d let Sherlock down. He’d let his brother down again and for goodness sake, what had he been thinking? He should have made more of an effort to call or to fly home. But he’d been distracted. There had been work, a lot of vital work, and there had been Jimmy and God… there had been Jimmy and thinking about him and his death still made his heart ache in the worst way._

_“He’s been at Cambridge,” his mother said. “You’ve been in America.”_

_And though that wasn’t an accusation, it felt like one because Mycroft’s job - his only job - was to look after Sherlock. He’d repeated it down the years like a mantra. And now his brother was lying near dead, addicted to some hideous drug._

_He took a seat on the opposite side of the bed. Oh, Sherlock. He couldn’t even work out what he’d been thinking, taking something so dangerous._

_“What is the prognosis?” he asked._

_“The doctors think he’ll recover.”_

_Mycroft waited by his bedside for almost two days straight until he woke up. Sherlock shouted at him to leave. Mycroft did without a moment’s hesitation._

* * *

**December 2005.**

**Location: Royal London Hospital, London.**

Jim Braum drove them to the hospital as fast as he legally could, dropping them off right outside. Mycroft followed the arrows to the intensive care unit, Anthea following behind him. They reached Sherlock’s room and Mycroft opened the door.

Greg was sat by his bedside, leaflets surrounding the chair. The concern on his face reflected just how Mycroft felt.

Mycroft sighed softly, stepping towards the bed. “Oh, Sherlock,” he whispered, staring down at his pale face and the wires coming out of his arm. This scene was far too familiar. He glanced at Anthea. “Can you leave us, please?” he asked.

She gave him one brisk nod before leaving.

“I’ll just be outside,” Greg said, offering him the chair.

“No.”

Greg frowned. “No?”

“No, you can stay if you wish.” Mycroft flinched a little at how much of an order that sounded, but Greg did as he was told, sitting back down in his chair. Mycroft felt sure Greg didn’t want to leave anyway.

“Ten hours?” Mycroft asked.

Greg looked at his own watch. “About nine hours now,” he said.

“Nine hours.”

Mycroft stared across at the bed, shaking his head a fraction. Sherlock looked pale and so young. He took a seat on the opposite side of the bed from Greg, glancing down at his hands.

“What’s your assistant’s name?” Greg asked.

“Anthea.” Greg nodded and returned to his leaflets. “Anything interesting?” Mycroft asked.

“Here? No. How to give up smoking, how important it is to have a prostate exam…” Greg shrugged. “I just needed something to do and read.”

Mycroft opened his briefcase and rifled through it until he found a copy of The Times. “Here,” he said, handing it over. “I’m finished with this.”

Greg nodded to him, surprised. “Right,” he said. “Cheers.”

“How did you find out about Sherlock’s condition?” Mycroft asked.

“Um. Apparently he specifically asked for me. I’m sure he knew you were out of the country or something, or he’d have asked for you.”

Mycroft shook his head. “It’s fine. He wouldn’t have asked for me,” he said, the words tinged with regret.

Greg opened and closed his mouth. He held up the newspaper. “Well. Thanks for this.” He turned to the front page and Mycroft leaned forward in his seat. He studied Greg for a moment.

“What newspaper do you read?” he asked.

Greg shrugged. “I don’t, really. I check BBC News in the morning. We have papers in the kitchens and social rooms at work but I don’t use them a lot. Maybe The Mirror, I guess. Sometimes they have a good football section.”

“I’m afraid I don’t tend to look at the back pages.”

Greg managed a smile. “And I’m afraid I don’t usually look at the front ones. I deal with enough death and misery in my day job, don’t need to read about it happening all over the country as well.”

“Do you enjoy your work?”

“Enjoy is probably the wrong word. I like it. I like doing something useful. I’m reasonably good at it too.”

“You must be good,” Mycroft murmured. “Sherlock wouldn’t work with you otherwise.”

“Hm. Maybe. Or I’m just a soft touch.”

Mycroft hummed in agreement and leaned back in his seat. Greg opened the newspaper and began to read.

Some time later, Anthea brought them each a drink. She handed Mycroft a cup of a tea and gave Greg a polystyrene cup with coffee in. Mycroft raised his eyebrows as Greg burnt his tongue on the hot drink.

“Always do that,” Greg muttered.

“You’re impatient.”

“One of many vices, I’m sure,” he replied with a forced smile. “Not the worst one, I imagine.”

Mycroft shook his head. “I wouldn’t know,” he replied. He glanced down at the page Greg had open in the newspaper. “Would you like a pen?” he asked.

Greg looked down at the crossword. “Yeah, go on,” he said. “I doubt I’ll actually be able to get any answers though.”

Mycroft reached into his briefcase and stood up to hand Greg one of his favourite pens. “I’m sure I can advise if you get stuck.”

Greg nodded and his eyes skimmed over the page. “Uh. Yeah. You might need to advise. Bloody hell.”

Mycroft managed a smile. “Bring your chair here,” he said.

Greg smiled a little sheepishly before dragging the chair next to Mycroft’s. “Right then,” he said. “On which the rejected suitor may get tied up again.”

Mycroft paused for a moment. “Rebound,” he said.

Greg blinked and then filled it in. “Oh right. Okay, so these are a little bit cryptic. Oh, Tom Hanks’ movie. Bit easier.”

Mycroft nodded. “There. I wouldn’t have got that one.”

“Not seen a Tom Hanks film?”

“I don’t think it’s my type of film.”

“What do you prefer?”

Mycroft shook his head. “I don’t have much time for watching films. I used to like Hitchcock films but… I haven’t had a chance to re-watch them for a long time.”

“The Birds?”

“Not one of my favourites, actually. I preferred Rear Window. A man who is confined to his flat and spends his time observing his neighbours. I suppose in many ways it explores the fascination with observation and… appreciation for the actions of others.” Mycroft frowned to himself. “Sorry,” he murmured.

“No,” Greg said quickly. “No, it’s fine. Never seen it to be honest.”

“I haven’t, not for a long time.” Mycroft glanced down at the puzzle. “The word you’re looking for on 20 across is Capek.” Mycroft checked his pocket watch. “Please excuse me a moment. I need need to ring my mother.” With a sigh, he retrieved his phone, his thumb hovering over the call button.

He took a deep breath before pressing it, and he swallowed as she answered. “Mycroft,” she said. “How are you?”

“Very well, thank you.”

“And Sherlock?”

Mycroft glanced across at his brother, and the machine indicating he was still alive, at least. “Fine,” he said.

“We’re going for our meal in five minutes. Was there anything important?”

“Not at all,” he said. “I just wanted to check there wasn’t anything you needed from me.”

“No. But you must tell me what you’re doing for Christmas.”

Mycroft frowned. “I’ll tell you by the end of the week,” he said.

“Do. Well, we’re off for our meal with the Makin family. Have a good evening, Myc.”

“You too,” he murmured as he hung up the phone, not in the mood to bother correcting her. He took a deep breath.

“You didn’t tell them?” Greg asked.

“No. I try to call them at this time on a Tuesday. Until we have a clearer picture of Sherlock’s condition, I didn’t want to bother them.”

Greg nodded and wordlessly returned to the crossword. He stuck with it for a while before doing the sudoku instead.

Mycroft sighed and rubbed his knees. His right one twinged uncomfortably, as it often did when he spent too much time sitting or was under stress. He stood up and walked around Sherlock’s bed. He read the doctor’s notes. “These words and numbers don’t mean anything to me,” he muttered.

“Yeah. I don’t know a lot about his condition, to be honest,” Greg told him. “I know a little bit about the rat poison symptoms but… not much.”

Mycroft shook his head. “It’s probably better not to know,” he said as a doctor wandered in to check on Sherlock. “How is he?”

“Still stable,” the doctor replied. “We’ll know more in an hour or so.”

Mycroft nodded. “I need to make a phone call.”

He walked out of the room, taking his phone out of his pocket. He lifted it to his ear. “Anthea. Can you please check the status of the meeting?”

“I have done already. It’s still on hold.”

“Good. Right.”

“How is he?”

Mycroft shook his head. “Stable. All they’re saying is stable.” He glanced through the glass and caught Greg’s eye. Greg looked away immediately and Mycroft frowned. He could tell he was blaming himself for what had happened to Sherlock. And Mycroft wasn’t going to tell him to do otherwise. He blamed him a little bit too. If he hadn’t involved Sherlock in his case involving drugs… It was irrational to blame him though. Sherlock knew what he was doing when he took the poison. Assuming that was what had happened, and he hadn’t been drugged… “Anthea? Have you got any CCTV from outside the hospital?”

“Yes, I’ve got someone at the office looking it up for you. I’m at the Coeur de Lion now.”

Mycroft couldn’t help his smile. “You are a very competent woman,” he said.

“I try. Tell me if you need anything.”

“I think we’ll both need some food in a little while.”

“I’ll send Loretta,” Anthea said. “Look after yourself.”

Mycroft hung up and wandered back into the room. Greg glanced at him with concern. “How you doing?” he asked.

“Fine.” Mycroft took his seat and retrieved some of his agendas to read through, ignoring the man beside him.

Over the next hour, Mycroft knew Greg was watching him. He’d glance at him, apparently worrying about Mycroft. And he kept leaning forward, as though preparing to stand up. But then he’d sit back down again.

“Look, I’ll go if you want,” Greg finally said, although he'd held off longer than Mycroft had expected him to. “Keep me up to date by text.”

Mycroft rolled his eyes. “You don’t want to go, so stay if you wish.”

“I feel like I’m getting in the way.”

Mycroft paused for a moment. “I find your company strangely soothing,” he admitted. “Though you really must stop looking at me as though I’m about to break.”

“Oh. Right.” Greg shuffled in his chair, staring down at his knees. “Yeah, sorry.”

Mycroft paused for a second. “I know,” he said. “I’m sorry you have to see this.”

“I’m giving him the benefit of the doubt ‘til I know why he did it.”

“My staff are finding out what they can.” Mycroft sighed. “Sherlock is…” He rubbed his face. “I don’t even know how to end that sentence.”

“Annoying?”

Mycroft managed a small laugh, shaking his head. “Yes. Perhaps an understatement in the circumstances.”

“You know Sherlock a lot better than me. I mean… would he do this? Take rat poison himself?”

Mycroft nodded. “Yes. Yes, I think he would. If he were trying to investigate your case and he thought it would help. Then yes.”

“Idiot.”

“Mmm. Did you finish the crossword?”

“No.” Greg handed him the newspaper. “Go for it.”

Mycroft nodded to him and accepted the pen. He filled the rest of it in. “You did better than I expected,” he said.

Greg snorted a laugh. “Uh. Thanks. I think.”

“It’s not an easy crossword.”

“You got that right,” Greg muttered. “What was six down by the way?”

Mycroft glanced down at the newspaper and handed it back to Greg. “Motif.”

Greg sighed and put the newspaper down on the floor. Mycroft glanced at him. He’d been here far too many times at Sherlock’s bedside. His parents, when they were there, were difficult to be with. They argued, blamed, sniped. Greg, for the most part, just sat. And though he was a little overbearing in his all-too-obvious (and unnecessary) concern for Mycroft’s wellbeing, Mycroft was glad to have him there.

“How is your case?” Mycroft asked.

“Not good, to be honest. It’s… frustrating.”

“You must deal with frustrating cases on a regular basis. What’s different about this one?”

“The number of bodies, for a start. The fact no one cares about the victims for another.”

Mycroft narrowed his eyes. “So, it’s not just the context of the case which bothers you. It’s the fact that the victims were alone. With no family, or friends.”

Greg pursed his lips. “I guess.”

Mycroft frowned as his felt his phone vibrate. He took it outside to answer. “Anthea. What’s happening?”

“We saw the CCTV. He injected it himself.”

Mycroft closed his eyes, tilting his head back against the wall. “Of course he did,” he muttered. Idiot.

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologise. It’s what I expected. The meeting?”

“It’s still on hold. Loretta is on her way with some food for you both.”

“Thank you.” Mycroft hung up and wandered back into the hospital room. “It’s official. Sherlock poisoned himself.” He sunk back into the chair dropping his head into his hands. He sat up straight just seconds later, determined for Greg not to see how much everything was affecting him.

“Oh God,” Greg breathed out. “I’m really sorry, Mycroft.”

“Stop apologising,” Mycroft snapped at him. “It doesn’t make any difference to…” He frowned at himself and shook his head. “My apologies.”

“You’re allowed to be stressed.”

“How many hours?” Mycroft asked.

“Five and a half.”

Mycroft chewed his lip. He got his paperwork back out and read it until Loretta Freeman brought them each a sandwich. They ate in silence, staring at Sherlock’s restful body.

“It’s good food,” Greg muttered.

“I think it’s from a sandwich shop near my office.” Mycroft checked the time. Just after 11pm. “Oh. Perhaps not. I’m not sure who made it then.”

“Lost track of time?”

“I can’t believe how many hours we’ve been just sitting here.”

“Where were you?” Greg asked.

“I wasn’t in the country. Were you at work?”

“No. Day off, believe it or not.”

Mycroft rolled his eyes. “Sherlock, as always, has excellent timing.”

“Yeah. Yeah, he’s got an art for it.”

“He does have a tendency to over-dramatise things.”

“Is that a family trait?”

Mycroft frowned, glancing at him.

Greg bit back a smile. “Sorry,” he muttered. “Just. You know. You and your ‘I’m not a spy’ routine. But ‘give me all your files anyway’. I mean, come on. It doesn’t make a difference to me what your work is. I’m a police officer. I work with spooks sometimes.”

“How often?”

“Not a lot. Different divisions tend to have the most interaction with them. But, yeah, I’ve known a couple of MI5 officers over the years. Not so much MI6. But I just work in London.”

“Were you working during the London bombings?”

Greg nodded. “Yeah. That was an all-hands-on-deck sort of day. Awful. Never seen anything like it, to be honest. And I was a police officer during the IRA days.”

Mycroft blinked. “That never occurred to me,” he said.

“Mmm. Don’t think about it a lot. But yeah, I was a PC at the time. So, a lot of standing at the scene, taking some statements, keeping the public at bay. Trying to stop the hysteria a lot of the time. There was a lot of fear, you know?”

Mycroft nodded. “Yes. I left university in 1991, so… I wasn’t working much during that period.”

Greg nodded. “I began working for the Met in…” He counted on his fingers. “1988, I think it was.”

It was, Mycroft thought, recalling the paperwork he’d read about the man.

“Yeah,” Greg continued. “So, there were some bombs a bit then. But it hit 1990 and 1991… I just remember the panic, all the time. It wasn’t easy to predict that stuff. I dealt with the Baltic Exchange Bombing. Nasty stuff, all of that.”

Mycroft nodded. “It’s easy to forget, I think. How recent it all was.”

“Yeah. Just over 10 years ago. The recent one though…” Greg shook his head. “Couple of my officers went to Trafalgar Square on their day off when the Olympics were announced. And they came into work the next day and they were really excited about it. Talking about what tickets they were gonna get. Next thing you know, the phone rings, there’s been a bomb. I was there at Russell Square. Never seen anything like it, Mycroft. Baltic Exchange Bombing was bad, massive damage and three dead, from memory. But Russell Square... Yeah. Horrific stuff.” Greg shrugged and wrung his hands.

Mycroft pressed his lips together. He’d seen the news reports, of course. Read all the written reports. He’d been involved in drafting legislation and investigating the aftermath. But he hadn’t spoken to anyone who’d been on the frontline.

He’d thought about Greg that day, in the context of the bombs and the fear. In the context of a war being waged in far away places, and the destruction that wrought. The London bombing had brought it home to people. Reminded them that they weren’t safe.

“What did you do?” Mycroft asked. “On the day?”

Greg frowned for a few moments. “Um. So. The first three bombs went off within seconds of each other, yeah?”

“About 50 seconds in total,” Mycroft confirmed.

“Right. So, we split up. I went to Russell Square, Sergeant Carter I think was Aldgate, and then Gregson might have done Edgware Road. So I went straight to Russell Square with a load of officers. We were sharing teams from outside of London too, that day. There was a lot of confusion, I won’t lie about that.” He paused. “We’re all going through some more training next year, and doing some sort of review with London Underground about various procedures. I don’t know a lot about all that, that’s dealt with someone higher up than me.”

Mycroft nodded. “I know there’s a panel looking at the procedures everyone went through on that day. As far as I’m aware, the police acted admirably.”

“Yeah. I was proud of my team that day. Most of ‘em didn’t deal with the IRA stuff. Shocked them, I think. Gets right to your gut when something like that happens. But do you know what really struck a chord with me? Bus services were back on by 4pm. Overground trains were back at pretty much the same time. And the next morning, the underground was open for business.”

Mycroft allowed himself a half smile at that. “Yes,” he said. “People are… resilient.”

“Londoners are resilient, I’ll give you that.” Greg frowned. “There’s people, probably you, who deal with the secrets and the laws and intelligence-gathering. I just hope they don’t forget the people who actually have to deal with their decisions.”

Mycroft sat back in his chair. “They don’t forget,” he murmured. “Well, admittedly sometimes they do. But everyone makes mistakes.”

Greg glanced at him and smiled. “They do,” he agreed. “I try not to think about it, anyway. What’s that saying? Have wisdom to change what you can?”

“It’s the Serenity Prayer. Grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change. The courage to change the things I can. And the wisdom to know the difference.”

Greg smiled. “That’s the one. I think it’s the wisdom I’m lacking there.”

Mycroft glanced at him and smiled back. “Yes. Likewise. I just hope Sherlock is one of those things I can change.”

“He’s an addict, Mycroft. You can’t stop it. It doesn’t go away. All you can do is support him and tell him off when he relapses and praise him when he sorts himself out.”

“What do you suggest then?”

Greg shrugged. “When I’ve figured it out, I’ll let you know.”

“Do. Because my tactics have failed thus far.”

They both looked up as the doctor walked in, nodding to them both. He checked on Sherlock’s monitors. “We’re pulling back on the sedatives,” he explained as he checked the drips. “We should be able to take him off intubation shortly.”

“What does that mean?” Mycroft asked.

“That we think he’ll make a recovery, but we have to monitor him.”

Mycroft sighed. “Just do what you think is best,” he said.

After several minutes, the doctor left them alone again. Mycroft glanced down at his hands, frowning.

“I think I might go and get a coffee and a smoke,” Greg said after a few minutes. “Do you want anything?”

Mycroft nodded and handed Greg his mug. “Just a tea, please. One sugar, milk.”

“Be right back.”

Greg walked out, leaving Mycroft alone with his brother. He sighed and watched him and the rise and fall of his chest. He frowned as Sherlock’s left arm twitched. And then his leg. And then his body began to convulse. Mycroft’s heart raced and he stood up, pressing the emergency button beside the bed. Within seconds, the doctors were there, restoring his treatment.

Mycroft stood by the wall, unable to do anything but watch. Helpless.

Greg appeared with the drinks and stood in silence by the door. As the doctors left, Mycroft slumped back in his chair. He dropped his head into his hands.

There wasn’t much to say about it. They had their drinks as they kept a silent vigil beside Sherlock’s bed. Mycroft retreated into his head, reorganising his thoughts as he often would do at the Diogenes. Greg was doodling on the newspaper.

When the doctors returned, it was to take Sherlock off intubation. Mycroft sat, tense. Waiting for Sherlock to crash again. He didn’t. The doctors told them there were signs of improvement.

“What are you doing for Christmas?” Greg asked after a while.

“I despise Christmas,” Mycroft said.

Greg nodded. “So do I.”

Mycroft glanced at him. He was adopted when he was relatively old, he supposed. He could imagine a number of Christmases spent in foster homes or children’s homes. Hardly the dreams young children had. “Yes. Yes, I suppose you would.”

Greg looked down at his legs.

It was at just after 4am when Sherlock began to move. Mycroft stood up as his eyes opened. Sherlock held his brother’s eyes, lifting his hand to his throat.

Anger gripped Mycroft’s chest in a vice. “Interesting,” was all Sherlock said, after everything he’d put them through, and all Mycroft could do was storm out, out past the doctors and the rooms and the nurses. Eventually he reached a door for a family waiting room, and after finding it deserted, he walked in.

He slammed the door shut and stood against it. He dropped his head into his hands. His brother was vindictive and selfish. He didn’t care what he put his family through, how many times he hurt them. He did it over and over and it was exhausting and painful.

Mycroft walked to the window and stared down at the hospital car park. The ambulances were luminescent in the glow of the streetlights. He’d almost forgotten there was a world out there, rumbling on outside of Sherlock’s room.

And he hated Sherlock for that. That he could distract him so easily from everything else. The other important things, the things which could affect hundreds and thousands of lives.

He didn’t move when he heard Greg’s footsteps behind him. A few moments later, he saw Greg’s reflection in the window. He looked tired, his temper frayed. “If I’d known what he was going to do-”

“-You couldn’t have done,” Mycroft said, and his voice sounded dead and worn, even to his own ears. “Sherlock keeps everyone in the dark. He doesn’t think about anyone else. He just does what he thinks is best.”

He watched in the reflection as Greg slumped down into one of the sofas. He could see Greg was studying him, but Mycroft kept his attention fixed on the window, watching Greg while the man was unaware. Mycroft didn’t understand this man at all. He couldn’t fathom why he was still here.

“Are you alright?” Greg asked.

“I’m fine,” Mycroft tried to snap. He wanted, needed for him to go away. Greg wasn’t responsible for his brother, Mycroft was. And Greg’s presence was only reinforcing his own failures. He checked the time. “Now Sherlock has pulled through the worst, I suppose I had better get back to work.”

“I’ll keep better eye on him,” Greg said.

Frowning, Mycroft turned to look at him. “I don’t believe this is your fault. Don’t feel responsible. You’re not his minder.”

“Neither are you,” Greg said. “He’s an adult. I know he doesn’t act like it half the time, but he’s not 15, he’s nearly double that. And if wants to kill himself, he should just bloody go and do it.”

Mycroft raised his eyebrows, surprised at Greg’s tone.

“Christ, Mycroft,” Greg said, standing up. “I don’t mean that. I wouldn’t have rushed over here if I meant that. I care about him. And not just because he helps with cases, I like him more than that. He drives me up the wall, but he’s alright.”

Mycroft narrowed his eyes, staring at him. No, he did not understand Greg Lestrade. No one cared for Sherlock. No one but Mycroft and his parents cared for Sherlock. But Greg had spent his day off sitting by Sherlock’s bedside. And not only that, he’d spent his day sitting beside Mycroft, in a way not even Mycroft’s colleagues would do. They spoke and interacted like friends, not acquaintances. And Greg acted like he cared about Mycroft’s wellbeing. Like he cared about Sherlock’s wellbeing. And he didn’t just care about Sherlock because he solved his cases.

And it made no sense. Greg didn’t carry an ulterior motive as far as Mycroft could tell. There was something horribly wrong with him. He was illogical.

“It isn’t your fault,” Greg finally said, breaking the silence. “There was nothing you could do to stop him doing that.” Greg took a step towards him and Mycroft tensed, preparing to take a step back. “He’s an idiot. It’s not your fault.”

“I’m aware,” Mycroft said tightly, but he could hear the emotion behind it, even if Greg couldn’t. And he resented it. Resented feeling anything at all, and that he was so close to revealing everything he felt to this ridiculous man in front of him.

And Greg wasn’t leaving even though Mycroft was silently begging him to. He couldn’t deal with having someone look at him, so full of concern and compassion. He hadn’t asked for someone to care about him. He didn’t want it. He wanted nothing more than for Greg to leave him and never to talk to him again.

Greg took a few more steps towards him. Mycroft turned back to the window. Anything to look away from those warm eyes. Anything to avoid this man who seemed as afflicted by caring as by an incurable disease.

“It’s okay,” Greg said. “You didn’t let him down.”

They both stood still, Mycroft staring out at the window, ignoring him. Because how dare Greg try to tell him it wasn’t his fault? Because how would he know? How could he claim to understand?

And then Mycroft tensed as Greg’s hand touched his shoulder. He clenched his jaw, his whole body reacting to it, as though it was an invader, a virus, something to be shot and destroyed. But Greg’s hand just rubbed against his shoulder. Mycroft turned to stare at him. His eyes met Greg’s dark ones. Greg just held his gaze right back.

Greg took another step forward. He was too far into Mycroft’s space now. No one ever touched him. No one ever reached out to him. Mycroft shook hands with people and that was the extent of his physical contact, and that was good, that was enough. This… this was horrifying. It was too much. Just one hand on his shoulder. Far too much.

Greg’s hand slid down his arm and held onto his bicep. “It’s not your fault,” he said again. His thumb rubbed against his arm, comforting, considered. Mycroft’s shoulders slumped. He was wearing Mycroft down, destroying him from the inside out. Tearing down the walls and obliterating the barricades into millions of tiny pieces. Mycroft was a castle with no moat, its thick walls breached and defenceless.

Mycroft lowered his head, defeated. Resenting it. Despising it. He was too easily broken up and pulled apart. He closed his eyes, trying to find a way to escape, but the touch was anchoring and he clung to it. He looked up at Greg.

“Thank you,” he whispered, and hoped that would be the end of it. Greg began to pull his arm away. But Mycroft’s body acted on its own accord, and it was only when his hand had already wrapped around Greg’s forearm that he’d realised what he’d done. He’d reached for him. He’d held onto him, silently willing him to stay.

They could only stare at each other, tension surrounding them, consuming. Greg’s hand returned to its place on his shoulder. Mycroft couldn’t move. He was powerless. Out of control. Even his body was rebelling against his mind and a war was raging inside of him but he couldn’t make sense of his own thoughts.

Greg licked his lips in a nervous gesture, and Mycroft’s eyes dropped down to watch and he looked back to his eyes.

Greg stepped closer still. They were stuck to the spot, still staring.

And he tensed as Greg’s arms wound around his neck, their bodies pulled close together. Mycroft was unused to being as close to anyone like this. And though he found the warmth and the compassion behind it reassuring, it took a few moments before he allowed himself to relax.

From there, he knew that accepting the hug would bring the oxytocin to the fore. What he wasn’t expecting was the way those hormones took hold of him, allowing him not only to relax into the embrace but to lift his own arms to return it. He wasn’t anticipating the way Greg’s body eased against his in return, warmth passing between them.

His heart rate slowed. The pressure in his chest eased.

Greg smelt like cigarettes and coffee, like cedar and bitter cocoa, some heady remnants of aftershave sprayed on much earlier that day.

Mycroft dropped his head to Greg’s shoulder. “I’m so angry with him,” he finally whispered, the day’s events catching up.

“So am I,” Greg told him. His hand, firm and reassuring, rubbed against the top of Mycroft’s back. “Angry and relieved.”

Mycroft nodded. Yes, because Sherlock was alive this time. Somehow, again, he’d escaped the knock of death and laughed in its face. There could only be so many times he would manage that. But for now, at least, he was alive.

 _You failed him again, Mycroft_ , words from a few years ago taunted in his ear. _What kind of brother are you?_

Mycroft pinched his eyes closed, tightening his hold on Greg. He should be ashamed, Mycroft thought. Standing here, relying on someone, acting like he needed this.

He did need this. God, he needed this touch like something he’d never dreamt of and…

He stepped back, dropping one hand to his side. And yet he couldn’t bring himself to pull away completely. He left one arm around Greg’s waist, blinking into the bright lights of the room as he opened his eyes.

Greg’s hands dropped onto Mycroft’s arms. Mycroft glanced down at them, seeing the faint line on his finger where his wedding ring once was. How could a man so recently hurt still be willing to offer so much?

Their eyes met.

The concern in Greg’s eyes was painful to see. No one should care that much. Why would anyone willingly give so much of themselves to other people?

Greg’s hands rubbed against his arms. Mycroft couldn’t move away. As though they were tied up together in barbed wire, stuck. And if they were to step away, they’d only get scratched and bloody and well, they were both just far too broken already to allow for that, weren’t they?

He wasn’t sure when their faces got so close. He didn’t know when he’d tilted his head. How Greg’s dark brown eyes were so magnetic that he was drawn to them, closer, closer. Greg’s lips so close now to his own. And they were going to kiss, and there would be consequences, but right now, Mycroft could damn those consequences to hell.

He wanted this, needed it, just wanted to allow himself to feel…

He felt his phone vibrate in his pocket before the ringing started.

He let out a soft sigh while Greg pulled away as though he’d been tasered, marching to the other side of the room.

Mycroft lifted his phone to his ear. “What?” he asked. He turned his head as the door shut and Greg left the room. He shook his head at his own stupidity.

“The meeting has taken place without you,” Anthea said. “I thought you ought to know.”

“Sherlock’s fine,” Mycroft told her. “Order a ‘plane. I should be there immediately.” He hung up the phone and turned to the window, suddenly consumed by the hollowness in his heart. 


	8. War Of Attrition

**December 2005.**

**Location: Edinburgh, Scotland.**

It didn’t matter how many hours he’d been lying in the hotel bed, staring up at the ceiling, the only thing he could think of was Greg Lestrade. No matter how many times he rewound the incident in his head, he couldn’t unravel it. No matter how many times he rolled over, the man had embedded himself in his brain. And not in a good way. Oh no. It made Mycroft feel sick to his stomach that he'd let Greg get so close to him. It made him want to bang his head against a wall, to think that Greg had been able to get under his skin. 

Mycroft had been manipulated in some way. That was the only way he could understand it. Greg had manipulated him into accepting his embrace. It had been some big deception or… or… or something.

There was the touching. The hugging. And then... the potential for a kiss, and that, _that_ was dangerous. That was quite possibly the worst thing they could have done and Mycroft was grateful to Anthea for calling and breaking the spell.

He was an idiot. He would inevitably appear weaker in Greg’s eyes now, and he couldn’t understand what was so different about that infuriating man. He didn’t know why he’d been so able to sink into his hug. He hated the not knowing worst of all.

He sighed and turned the lamp on, sitting up and collecting his laptop. Danny Finck had developed a new programme, one to monitor Government decisions being made all over the world. Mycroft hated the format of it. It didn’t match how he felt it should have been logically set-up and he was emailing Danny a list of changes to make.

But even that didn’t take his mind off how _good_ it felt to rest against Greg's body. It didn't change how much he longed to feel it again. Letting out a frustrated sound, he slammed the laptop closed, sliding out of bed. He padded across the floor, leaning against the windowsill. He closed his eyes, pressing his forehead against the cold window.

Greg Lestrade. He could almost feel the warm press of his hand against his shoulder. His arms wrapped around his neck. Breath against his lips.

And he despised it.

* * *

**March 2000.**

**Location: Crusader House, Pall Mall, London.**

_He tensed when he felt Tristan Castleton's hands rest on his hips from behind, his partner stepping closer to rub his nose against Mycroft’s neck. “No?” Tristan asked, kissing behind his ear._

_Mycroft frowned. “It’s fine,” he muttered, stirring the rice._

_“It doesn’t feel fine.”_

_“Honestly.”_

_“You don’t like it when I touch you,” Tristan said, taking a step back._

_Mycroft sighed, turning a page in the recipe book. “Did you want beans or broccoli?” he asked._

_“Mycroft. Forget dinner for a second, please? Look at me.”_

_Mycroft sighed and turned to face his partner of six months. Tristan reached up to brush his fingers against Mycroft’s cheek. “What happened?”_

_“Nothing happened.”_

_“But you don’t like hugs.”_

_Mycroft shook his head. “No, I don’t like hugs. I don’t like being held.”_

_“Is it your claustrophobia?”_

_It was a good enough excuse for Mycroft to nod and say yes to that. He convinced himself that it had nothing to do with his lack of physical contact for the past five years. And he would never admit that he used to love nothing more than being wrapped up in Jimmy Dine’s arms. Tristan was nice and safe, with a good academic career. He wasn’t Jimmy, but then, who was?_

_Five years after his death, Mycroft felt as though he should be moving on from all of that, trying to find something new. It was difficult when Tristan’s affection made him feel as though he was being smothered._

_“I’m not used to it,” he said. “You’ll have to give me a bit of time.”_

_“I thought it was because you were shy at first,” Tristan said, watching him with his hazel eyes. “But that isn’t it, is it? Did something happen to you?”_

_“Nothing happened.”_

_“When you were a child or an adult?”_

_“No. Nothing like you’re implying.” Mycroft turned back to the food._

_“Myc, if there is anything-“_

_“-Don’t call me Myc,” he said, his voice firmer than he’d meant for it to be._

_“Mycroft. If there’s anything I can do to help, just say.”_

_“There’s not anything.” Mycroft paused for a moment before turning back around, taking hold of Tristan’s hand, stopping him from walking away. “This is fine,” he said. “This amount of distance is wonderful. But you have to approach me from my front or the side, not from the back.”_

_“Is this anything to do with your scars on your back?”_

_Mycroft nodded, considering that he’d never properly come to terms with what had happened to him in Iran. “Perhaps," he conceded. "I’m not sure.”_

_“No problem then,” Tristan said, kissing his forehead. Mycroft closed his eyes, allowing the contact for those short moments. “I’ll remember that from now on. And broccoli. Please.”_

_Mycroft gave him a curt nod, and turned back to food, not entirely convinced his past traumas were the problem either._

_He just wasn’t an affectionate man, he told himself. It felt invasive and full of expectation. But as he lay in bed beside Tristan, he couldn’t help but wonder if that were true. Because if it had been Jimmy in bed beside him, the man would have been snoring into his neck, his arms winding round him like an octopus. Mycroft would have pulled him closer, delighting in his warmth and contentedness._

_Time alone, without that man in his life, had only made him colder._

* * *

**December 2005.**

**Location: Edinburgh, Scotland.**

When sleep came, it was restless and uneasy. Mycroft drifted through the day sustaining himself on coffee.

After a dinner alone in the hotel restaurant, Mycroft went to bed. But he didn’t even bother to try to sleep. He opened his documents relating to Hadrian Kirkcudbright.

His death had to be something to do with Operation Indigo, he mused. Hadrian had been working on a lot of projects, but none so secretive as that one was. Most of his work had involved negotiations with the Americans on sharing intelligence.

But as he read back through the circumstances of the man’s death, he found himself no more enlightened. Sherlock would be able to solve it, he thought. If he was given access to the files.

He blinked as his phone went off. As he lifted it, he was stunned to see it was almost 4am and he'd lost hours to his work.

The message was from Greg, and for a moment, Mycroft panicked, fearing the worse about his brother. But Greg was simply asking how Sherlock was.

Frowning, Mycroft checked his emails. He re-read the most recent report from the doctor, confirming Sherlock has got through the worst.

 

MESSAGES  
3.49am: He is recovering. M

 

Mycroft’s thumb hovered over the send button. He needed Greg to see Sherlock, to try to push them into working with one another again.

 

MESSAGES  
3.49am: He is recovering. He  
would like to see you if you  
can find the time. M

 

He went to press send again. But no. He wanted to see Greg Lestrade too. If he could set them both on the path to solving the Kirkcudbright murder…Hoping he didn’t sound too desperate, Mycroft added one more sentence:

 

MESSAGES  
3.49am: He is recovering. He  
would like to see you if you  
can find the time. As would I. M

 

Mycroft closed his laptop down, lying down on his back as he went through those words in his head. Had he sounded too needy? He fiddled with his phone, staring up at the ceiling. He blinked when another message came through.

 

MESSAGES Greg Lestrade  
3.53am: I’m on late shift so will  
get there in the morn. What you  
doing up?

 

MESSAGES  
3.54am: I am travelling. I will  
be out of the country until Friday.  
Perhaps we can arrange a time to  
have a drink? I have a favour to ask  
of you. M

 

MESSAGES Greg Lestrade  
3.56am: What time Fri? Last message  
from me. I’m going back to sleep.  
Good trip.

 

MESSAGES       
4.12am: Is 8pm suitable? Have a  
pleasant rest. M 

 

Mycroft put his phone down on the side, not expecting a response. It was just a meeting. Only a meeting, he told himself. To discuss a crime.

Mycroft was already in a car en-route to a meeting later that morning when Greg text him.

 

MESSAGES Greg Lestrade  
6.54am: 8 is fine. See you soon.  
On my way to see Sherlock. 

 

Mycroft showed the message to Anthea so she could add the meeting to her calendar.

* * *

The Prime Minister and First Minister of Scotland were still discussing the black sites. They joked about torture methods. Described how no one would care about the method as long as it was a way of getting to Osama Bin Laden. Perhaps that were true, Mycroft thought. But still. With every five minutes of debate and discussion, he could only feel tension in his chest, anger boiling in his veins.

After dinner, he slammed his hotel door shut. Pretending to be cordial to them all day had exhausted him. All he had for comfort was a text from Greg to say Sherlock was fine.

With Sherlock, with terrorists, with playing nice to idiots, Mycroft’s mind was whirring. His heart racing. He swallowed and made his way to the bathroom, pouring out a glass of water. His hand shook. His face was pale in the mirror. And he knew where it came from.

Having 10 years pass didn’t make the memories go away. He was sure he could still feel his right knee twinge in pain, and the water on his face…

He shook his head and tried to force it all away. Some memories didn't need to be dragged up, no matter the circumstances.

* * *

When Friday came, Mycroft checked himself in the mirror. He adjusted his tie, pinned on a tie clip and nodded to himself. He had lost some weight in recent months, he realised. Perhaps it was the stress. He was working himself into the ground. Or taking too many flights around the world. Either way, he was looking better than he remembered looking for a long time. 

He got into the car, staying silent and trying to relax. Just the thought of seeing Greg again put him on edge. It was all for a purpose, he reminded himself. To help Sherlock and to clear the Kirkcudbright case. But he wished he didn’t have to do it this way. He wished he could find a way to make Greg do whatever he wanted, without needing to meet him in person.

Greg had a way of unravelling him, and he wasn't prepared to be unravelled any further. 

He text Greg as the car arrived outside of Scotland Yard. He watched out of the window as the man approached the car, a blue scarf wrapped around his neck. He got into the car. He had dark circles under his eyes, a tight smile on his face.

“Long day,” Mycroft murmured, studying him.

Greg nodded, putting his seatbelt on. “Just full of paperwork,” he said.

“You look as though you need a strong drink.”

“You got that right,” Greg murmured, smiling a little tiredly.

Mycroft smiled and leaned forward to tell Jim to drive to The Feathers pub. He glanced at Greg out of the corner of his eye, registering the man’s surprise when they pulled up outside the pub. Mycroft led him inside, holding the door open for him. They walked to the door. Mycroft eyed the whiskey collection before selecting one.

“Long day?” Greg asked him.

“Yes. Most unfortunate.” He allowed Greg to pay for the drinks and they carried them over to a sofa by the fire.

“So you had a favour to ask me?” Greg asked, once they’d sat down beside each other and removed their coats. Greg had a stain on his shirt collar. It looked like an oily bacon stain. And it appeared as though he hadn’t eaten anything else all day. It must have been a difficult day for some reason. Probably to do with a case.

“I was going to ask for you to allow Sherlock access to the Kirkcudbright files,” Mycroft told him. “It is of some importance to me. And I believe his involvement will help. And it would take his mind off the rat poison case, which I believe can only be a benefit at the present time.”

“No.”

Mycroft frowned. “No?” he repeated.

“Sherlock’s off my cases until he finds somewhere else to live and proves he’s clean in two weeks time.”

“But then you will allow him access?”

“I don’t know. It’s a massive case. I’ve spent two years on it. And I’m not going to have it messed up in court.”

“Again.”

“Are you deliberately trying to piss me off?” Greg asked.

His bluntness took Mycroft aback for a second. He sipped his drink. “My apologies,” he said, considering that he was perhaps too exhausted to try to be diplomatic. “Hadrian Kirkcudbright had access to information that was of vital importance to this country. I would hate for it to have got into the wrong hands.”

“I’m not putting Sherlock on it. Maybe one day but not now.”

Mycroft frowned. “Because you’re still angry at him.”

“I’m furious,” Greg confirmed. “The fact he doesn’t get why just makes me more angry.”

They sat in silence, both staring into the fire opposite them. Mycroft sipped his drink, watching the flames, silently despising the man sat beside him. Greg was caring again. Greg was being considerate again. And it only infuriated him, because he couldn’t understand why he was being those things.

“Well, if that’s it, I should probably go,” Greg said after a while, leaning forward in the chair.

“Very well.” Mycroft should have known this was a bad idea. People didn’t enjoy his company, and especially not in social settings.

But then Greg spoke again, his voice soft. “How you doing?”

Mycroft’s chest tightened. “Fine,” he said, but it was so far from what he really felt. He was overwhelmed by how much work he had to do, and all the thoughts and feelings swimming around, ever since Greg had first laid a hand on his shoulder... God, he wished more than anything in the world that he could forget how that had felt. 

“You don’t need to be all macho with me.”

“I’m not being… macho,” Mycroft muttered.

Greg turned his body, angling his knees towards Mycroft. Mycroft kept staring at the fire, avoiding his gaze.

“I told him we’re finding a new flat," Greg said. 

Mycroft nodded. "Yes, I'm sure that will be for the best. If you require my input, let me know."

“I’m bloody sick of this,” Greg muttered. Mycroft glanced at him, narrowing his eyes. "Have you even spoken to Sherlock since this happened?"

“Of course. I told you Sherlock requested your presence.”

"So I can stop being a go-between?"

"I never asked you to be a mediator," Mycroft said slowly. 

"Feels a bit like that's what I've become."

"Only because you're the closest thing to a friend Sherlock has ever found. And believe me, that does surprise me."

Greg frowned. "Why? What's wrong with me?"

Mycroft sighed. "There is nothing wrong with you, Greg. The surprise comes in the fact you have taken Sherlock as a friend yourself. The man told you of your wife's affair, presumably without any consideration for your feelings. And yet, a day later, you met with him as though you weren't hurt by that."

"He's useful," Greg mumbled into his pint glass.

"You like him."

"Well. Shouldn't I?"

Mycroft nodded. "Of course you should. Sherlock has a tricky time finding friends. He has a tricky find even finding acquaintances happy to be in the same room as him. That you have been willing to work with him despite all his obvious flaws is a great source of surprise for me. But, as I have told you before, you continually surprise me."

Greg tilted his head, looking at his glass. "I guess you're a tough man to surprise."

Mycroft smiled. "The toughest,” he agreed.

They glanced at each other. They talked about universities and Sherlock’s drug habit, finding a mutual understanding there. And for the first time in his life, Mycroft found he could talk to Greg about some of the drug-taking. And about Sherlock’s mind, his struggles with his thoughts, his ideas, the overpowering, constant deductions. Mycroft had known that. Occasionally he still did, but Sherlock suffered with it most of all.

After a while, Mycroft walked to the bar to get them each another drink. And he decided to buy them each some food, because Greg was not going to be able to survive on just a bacon sandwich.

He looked up at the mirror above the bar, gazing at Greg’s reflection in it. He was watching the fire. Then he turned his head, gazing at Mycroft. Greg had no idea Mycroft was observing him in the reflection. But Mycroft saw his eyes move, down over Mycroft’s back, down his backside, his legs. And he didn’t stop looking. Staring. Watching.

Mycroft swallowed, his throat suddenly dry as he asked for their drinks. When was the last time anyone had looked at him like that?

But no. Not Greg.

He was bisexual, Mycroft knew that. But he was also a sensible man, not one to be caught up in lust like some hapless teenager. And yet, and yet, oh Mycroft wished for it. He felt a longing for him, a desire to touch him, to see what it would be like to have those arms around him again.

Mycroft paid for the drinks and food and turned around and Greg almost jumped when Mycroft caught his eye. Mycroft began to smile. Well, it was nice to be appreciated at least. He carried the drinks over, taking note of Greg’s flushed cheeks. He sat down, closer than he had been before. Greg’s pupils dilated.

Attraction was as easy to spot as anything else. It was unexpectedly pleasant.

“So, you can analyse everything about someone?” Greg asked.

Mycroft almost laughed at the irony of the question. “Deduce. Yes.”

"That must be pretty useful in your line of work. Whatever that is."

Mycroft looked amused as he sipped his drink. "I find a number of skills to be of use."

Greg grinned. "It was worth a try. I'm curious.”

The barman brought over some bruschetta and a burger and chips for Greg. It turned out Greg had been dealing with a domestic violence incident, one which had affected him in some way.

"I deal with it all the time,” Greg said, as that meant he shouldn't be so unhappy.

"And yet this one has particularly affected you." 

Greg looked at him, his jaw tight. “It’s sorted. It’s just a lot of paperwork before it goes to court.”

Mycroft reached over, touching his arm. His fingers pressed against Greg’s pulse, measuring, assessing. He didn’t have much experience to compare it to, he would need to do it again later. “You have many strengths, Greg," he said, lifting his hand. “What sort of flat are you looking for?”

"Bed, kitchen, bathroom. I don't need more than that."

"Any particular area?"

"Just anywhere I can afford. As close to work as possible, I guess."

"If you need anything-"

"-I don't,” Greg snapped. “Sorry, Mycroft,” he added, frowning.

Mycroft turned to him. “Do you need to talk?” he asked, trying to extend to courtesy Greg had shown him earlier that night.

Greg shook his head. “But thanks.” He paused for a moment before speaking again. “Mycroft-” he started, but his phone rang.

Mycroft sat back in his seat, half listening to Greg’s side of the phone call, half wondering what on earth he was doing in trying to be friends with him. It went against everything he believed in.

When Greg revealed his team had found a body, Mycroft offered to drive him to his crime scene and they walked out of the pub together. Mycroft held the car door open for him and got in. “The rat poison case?” he asked.

Greg nodded and Mycroft turned to his phone, receiving surveillance information which confirmed Sherlock was en-route to the crime scene.

The car stopped. Greg unfastened his seat belt, and Mycroft reached over, wrapping his hand over Greg’s lower arm, his fingers pressing against his pulse in his wrist. He felt it speed up, just a little. “I had a nice evening,” Mycroft murmured. “I’ll be in touch.”

“Me too,” Greg said, getting out of the car.

Mycroft sat back in his seat, frowning.

“Crusader House,” he said softly, refusing to look out of the window to where Greg was.

As he lay in bed that evening, trying to read a book, he replayed their conversation. He tried to assess Greg’s attraction to him. If it had always been there and he hadn’t noticed it, or if it was new.

He lay on his side, wrapping his arms around his chest.

He felt sure he could _feel_ him. A firm chest pressing against his back, holding him, making it feel okay.

And Mycroft could only consider one thing as sleep began to take him: Spending time with Greg Lestrade was going to be the single worst decision of his entire life. 


	9. Undisciplined

**December 2005.**

**Location: Oak Manor, Oxfordshire.**

The old house was not used but anyone but Mycroft, not any more. When he planned a visit, several cleaners would go around the house to ensure it didn’t smell too musty and woodworm hadn’t got into the floorboards. They did a good job of cleaning every room, even though Mycroft hardly used most of them.

Mycroft’s fascination with the old house had always existed. He knew it had been given to the Holmes family by King Charles II. One of Mycroft’s ancestors had been bestowed the title of Knight of the Royal Oak, in tribute to his loyal service while the king was exiled in France.

The house had gone through several incarnations before that time, but it retained the name Oak Manor since then, and the name complemented the trees in the gardens which were hundreds of years old themselves.

Mycroft had visited the house regularly for the past three years, after burying troubling memories away as deeply as he could manage. His parents didn’t visit it, not anymore, but they took some pleasure in knowing Mycroft did. That way, the heirloom remained within the family. Sherlock had always hated the old house, and he too avoided it.

Mycroft spent Christmas Day there, alone. He went for walks around the gardens, well-tended by gardeners appointed by the National Trust and English Heritage. He made himself dinner, sitting by the fire and nursing a drink.

It was only then that he turned his attention to his phone for the first time that day. He had one text message from Greg Lestrade.

 

MESSAGES Greg Lestrade  
9.45pm: Sodding bollocks of a  
day. Tell me yours has been  
better.

 

Mycroft blinked down at the message. He had a feeling the man had probably been drinking, as it was far more emotional than his texts usually were. He tucked his phone back into his pocket, letting the soft music of Johann Joachim Quantz take over his mind instead. But his thoughts lingered on Greg Lestrade now. He was inevitably alone this Christmas too and for the first time, Mycroft wondered if he’d done the right thing in choosing the old house over his parents’ Christmas dinner.

Mycroft took his phone back out of his pocket and typed out a quick message.

 

MESSAGES  
10.16pm: Yes, I imagine it has been.  
I presume you’ve been working? I  
have a glass of wine and a good book. M

 

MESSAGES Greg Lestrade  
10.18pm: So we’re both alone at Xmas  
then? Dunno how you stand it.

 

Mycroft frowned. With a soft sigh, he put his phone back into his pocket. It was the first time that day that he craved a conversation with someone. To sit and discuss politics or shared interests. So really, he thought, he had withstood the silence rather well. He hadn’t needed company until late on in the evening, after all.

He didn’t do Greg the courtesy of sending another text. There were some conversations which did not need to take place.

* * *

**January 2006**

**Location: Minsk, Belarus.**

“When the General Assembly was created in 1946, its first action was to establish a commission to deal with the problems raised by the discovery of atomic energy,” Hugh Seagroves said as he and Mycroft wandered out of the car.

“What a wonderful sentiment,” Mycroft muttered. “They must have thought they’d already saved the world.”

“While in the background, they were all developing more weapons and posturing,” Hugh said with a smile. “I love the irony.”

Mycroft followed him into the large warehouse, where a woman was crouching down beside an array of weapon parts and taking notes. Their hosts were huddled in a circle, trying to ignore what was going on around them.

Mycroft glanced at Hugh Seagroves, who shrugged at him. There were hundreds of pieces of scrap metal in the room, some pieces hardly recognisable. Other parts were obviously from various weapons.

“Do you know what any of this is?” Mycroft asked as they stepped towards some of the parts.

Hugh shrugged, taking a step closer. “Most of this looks like junk. Half of it would never work. But that…” He pointed. “Well, that’s not good.”

Mycroft frowned, glancing down at what looked like some kind of propulsion system. He ran his fingers against the cold metal. “Enlighten me,” he said.

Hugh turned around. “Hannah!” he shouted. “Come over here.” With a roll of her eyes, the woman wandered over. “This as bad as I think it is?” Hugh asked her.

She nodded. “Yep, there’s plenty of parts for creating ballistic missiles here.”

Mycroft stared at her. “Are you sure?” he asked.

“I’m a weapons expert. Of course I’m bloody sure. There’s what looks like items for transporting chemicals over there… not had a proper look at them yet, but my guess is they’d be used to enrich uranium. So, somewhere is going both ballistic and nuclear. Kaboom.”

Mycroft ignored her unwelcome histrionics, deciding to focus on cataloguing just how much had been seized.

“And this was all en-route to Iran?” Hugh asked.

Mycroft nodded. “The Belorussian authorities notified us two days ago after they stopped a lorry heading through the country. If I’m not mistaken, some of these weapons are manufactured in America. The lorry was due to travel through Belarus, on through Russia and then finish in Iran.”

“Can you tell me the company who made them?” Hugh asked.

Mycroft paused. He expected much of it originated from RL6 Industries, run by Rickard Luck, but he wasn’t in a position to say that aloud. “I don’t know. I’m not a weapons expert.”

“I am,” Hannah said, crouching down. “Missiles are like fingerprints. There’s the rivets and the paintwork… It looks like shoddy work by RL6 to me. Maybe a few people went rogue and started to design and make them themselves? Maybe Iran, or wherever, didn’t pay them much. It’s shoddy. Doesn’t mean it couldn’t do some serious damage though.”

“Perhaps I should get in touch with RL6,” Hugh muttered.

Mycroft shook his head. “No. No, I don’t think that’s necessarily the right course of action. Allow me.”

Hugh studied him for a few seconds before shrugging his shoulders in concession. “This was all going to end up in Iran,” he said. “Or anywhere. China. Pakistan. Russia, even. Has no one learned from the Cold War?”

“The Cold War continues, only in a different form,” Mycroft said, touching the missile parts. “What would you estimate its power to be?”

Hannah paused for a moment, her eyes skimming over it. “I suppose. Well, I suppose it could get half-way to Europe, sir, if it was made properly. Which this isn’t.” Her eyes flicked to Mycroft’s. “But I have a funny feeling this lorry-load wasn’t even the full story. Good luck with whatever you’re doing.”

Mycroft raised his eyebrows as she sauntered off, grabbing a clipboard from the side.

“She’s efficient, I’ll give her that,” Hugh muttered.

Mycroft forced a smile.

But she was efficient. Only three hours later, Mycroft had a full report on every weapon and part in the warehouse, complete with its apparent maker’s marks. She believed a number of them bore resemblance to weapons produced by RL6. And after going through RL6’s sales to the UK over the past six years, Mycroft was inclined to agree.

Where Hannah said the weapons were like fingerprints, Mycroft was beginning to see what she meant.

No matter how safe people felt in their homes, it felt to Mycroft as though the Cold War had never truly ended. That one misunderstanding or one naval ship out of place could blow everything out of the water. Literally.

* * *

**Location: Whitehall, London.**

Mycroft’s small office in Whitehall was a sufficient mask to hide his national security work. He went there three or four times a week, taking meetings with Members of Parliament and Civil Servants. Foreign diplomats sent a number of emails to him a week and he kept an eye on negotiations between the British delegates and those abroad.

He could only watch as negotiations with Iran over its proposed nuclear programme fell apart.

The British, American, French and German ministers could do nothing to deter the programme. All they could do was refer Iran to the United Nations Security Council. And even if Iran faced sanctions, it was no guarantee of success. Iran had oil to barter with and that was a commodity that was taken very seriously indeed.

* * *

Three nights later and Mycroft poured himself and The Times’ political reporter, Oliver Cale, a glass of whiskey. They'd known each other in their university days, meeting up again only once Mycroft had returned from working in America. They'd tended to meet once a year from then, but Mycroft had followed his journalism career with mild interest.

“It’s been quite a while,” Oliver said as he crossed his legs at the ankles, relaxing into one of the chairs. He looked around the office, letting out a low whistle. “I’ve got to say, I was expecting something a little fancier.”

“I’m expecting a promotion,” Mycroft told him, only a little offended as he glanced around the tiny office. “I imagine it’s only a matter of time until I move into something… a little more respectable.”

Oliver laughed. “It’s not as though I can talk. You should see the state of my desk. Just full of Government papers. I probably spend as much time reading draft legislation as you do.”

“I don’t doubt it.” Mycroft held his glass out and they clinked them together before each having a sip.

“How’ve you been?”

Mycroft nodded. “Fine. Yourself?”

“Good. Yes… So, you’re okay?”

Mycroft narrowed his eyes. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“You didn’t hear? I thought you knew.”

“Knew what?”

“Ethan. He was in a car accident, died. You didn’t know?”

Mycroft froze for a moment. That was two out of three of his former partners dead then. What a good track record that was proving to be… He shook his head. “No. Well, we weren’t in contact.”

Oliver nodded. “Oh. Right, I see. We weren’t either, but I still thought you’d have found out.”

“When did he die?”

“New Year’s Day.”

“I was abroad for a few days,” Mycroft told him. “Perhaps I missed a message.”

Oliver nodded. “Maybe,” he said.

“How is the newspaper industry?”

Oliver shrugged. “Struggling, mostly. God bless the internet.” Oliver grinned, shaking his head. “We’re making our way.”

Mycroft nodded, and put his drink down on the table. He stood up and walked to his desk. “How well do you know me, Oliver?” he asked.

“Not very. Not since we left university. I used to know your body better than I knew what was going on in your head.”

Mycroft raised his eyebrows. “Believe me, you didn’t know me in that department either.” They’d had sex a maximum of three times, some time between Jimmy’s death and Mycroft meeting Tristan. He’d had a few encounters in those days, trying to erase Jimmy  from his memory. It hadn’t worked.

Oliver snorted with laughter. “You wreck my confidence. Why do you ask?”

“I have a story for you.”

Oliver leaned forward in his chair. “Alright then. Excellent. What is it? Government minister having an affair?”

Mycroft rolled his eyes. “Not that trivial, I’m afraid.”

“Tell me it’s scandalous.”

Mycroft nodded as he took his seat again. “Oh, it is that,” he agreed. He handed over the wad of paper, sipping his drink as Oliver skim-read the first few pages.

Oliver glanced at him and then back down at the documents. “Sorry. Did I… Is this what I think it is?”

“It’s a memo suppressing debate about people being transported to black sites in Europe for interrogation. It says those transported there are at real risk of torture. MPs are having their attempts to find out more stifled.”

“How did you find out about it?”

“I’m a man with contacts, Oliver. Can you do something with this?”

Oliver nodded. “Yes, of course. But, what exactly do you want?”

“Just publish the memo. Let the debate occur in public.”

“Why would you want me to do that, exactly?”

Mycroft smiled, swirling his drink around. “Why do my motives matter?”

“Because I would have thought you’d want this kept as secret as the Prime Minister evidently does.”

Mycroft shrugged one shoulder. “My reasons are my own. But I’d be grateful if you’d print this and obviously, protect your source.”

“Won’t they know?” Oliver asked. “That it was you?”

“The memo is already common knowledge in Whitehall and the Prime Minister knows that already. Anyone working in this building could easily have released it.”

Oliver nodded. “Okay. Then, I’ll take this and release it.”

“Do. Wait a few days though. A source mentioned to me that the Washington Post will be doing an exposé themselves… it won’t have any links to Britain and the Prime Minister will have to play down Britain’s involvement. Then you can release your story the next day, disputing his statement.”

“Right then.” Oliver laughed, topping up their drinks. “You may as well do my job for me, Mycroft, clearly I’m not as good at all this as I thought I was.”

“No, your recent front page was good.”

“Just good?”

Mycroft smiled. “What did you expect me to say? You criticised the new anti-terrorist legislation and I played a big role in drafting that.”

“Yes, fine, but you know it’s all a mess.”

Mycroft laughed. “Of course it is. The Prime Minister’s behind it. What else would it be besides a mess?”

Oliver laughed, rolling his eyes. “Oh good God. I almost missed this. You and I drinking and debating politics.”

“ _Almost_ missed it.”

“Mmm, well, you’re a hard bastard. I never win for a start, and you only invite me for drinks when you want something.”

“There’s always something in it for you.”

“Doesn’t it get… tiring though?” Oliver asked, leaning forward in his chair. He put one hand down on Mycroft’s knee, the heat uncomfortable through Mycroft’s trousers. “Don’t you ever think you could just use more? Just for one night?”

Mycroft frowned down at his hand, inwardly cringing. “We’ve been down that road before. I think it’s a well-worn road.”

“Three times is hardly well-worn. How long has it been since you’ve been with someone?”

Five years. But it hadn’t been a torrid time and until Greg Lestrade showed up with his lingering gazes, Mycroft hadn’t really felt alone at all. Oliver licked his lips, and pushed the chair forward to that one knee was pressing between Mycroft’s.

“Just one night,” he whispered, looking up into Mycroft’s eyes. “You know we’re good together.”

Mycroft studied him for a second and leaned forward himself, more out of curiosity than anything else. Sex between them had always been adequate, and it would probably take Greg off his mind.

Oliver reached up and caressed Mycroft’s cheek with the backs of his fingers, letting them finish on the side of his neck. Mycroft resisted the urge to pull away. “For once in your life,” Oliver said softly. “Why don’t you just admit that you need this as much as anyone else does?”

And then he closed the gap between them. Mycroft closed his eyes and let Oliver lead, responding in kind for a few moments to the incessant kiss. He imagined Greg Lestrade would never kiss this way, he would be more considered, mixing soft, lingering touches with swipes of his tongue. He would draw it out, fill every kiss with devotion, like some heaven-sent angel. He would draw Mycroft in with his cigarettes and cocoa and cedar smells, warm and consuming...

With a soft sigh, Mycroft broke the kiss. Oliver frowned at him and Mycroft shook his head. “My apologies,” he said. “I’m afraid it’s not happening tonight.”

Oliver shrugged, standing up and collecting the paperwork into his briefcase. “As far as I can tell, it doesn’t happen any night. When was the last time you actually got involved with someone?”

“I have more than enough to occupy my time than the trivialities of getting physically involved with someone.”

Oliver snorted. “No one can call sex trivial, Mycroft. Not even you. It’s nice. Takes you away from all the black sites and terrorists, I’ll tell you that.”

“I’m sure you’ll find what you’re looking for,” Mycroft said, watching him.

Oliver nodded and held his hand out, which Mycroft shook. “Ethan’s buried in a cemetery in Leeds, if you’re interested.”

“I’m not. I hadn’t spoken to him in almost 20 years.”

“I know. Neither did I, to be honest.” Oliver shrugged. “We’ll keep in touch. I need some more front page stories.”

Mycroft rolled his eyes but smiled nonetheless. “Print that one first. Then we’ll consider if there’s more where that came from.”

He watched as Oliver left the room and he leaned back in his chair, finishing his drink.

It was a dangerous game, this _getting involved_. And not one he was willing to play.

* * *

It was Anthea who alerted Mycroft to Sherlock’s change in living conditions. He’d found a flat in Dombey Street and after Mycroft had vetted the inhabitants, he decided it was suitable enough for Sherlock. It was better than his previous accommodation and that was better than nothing.

Mycroft walked past some boxes as he made it up the stairs. He could hear Greg’s warm, good-natured scolding as he walked to Sherlock’s flat.

Sherlock looked up as soon as Mycroft arrived at the door. Mycroft glanced around at the desk and the furniture they’d already put in place. “My, my,” he said. “This is quite a set up.”

He watched as Greg sunk down onto the sofa, his eyes flicking between the two of them.

“What are you doing here?” Sherlock snapped.

“I wanted to see your new place. It is infinitely better than the last one. Not that that’s saying much.”

“I didn’t have a choice but to leave,” Sherlock replied, flashing Greg a pointed look. Greg grinned and shrugged.

Mycroft turned to him, a flutter in his stomach as he finally studied him properly. He pushed the sensation down, unsure where it had come from. “Have you found yourself somewhere suitable to live?” he asked.

“Yeah, it’s alright. It’ll do.”

“And how is the Kirkcudbright case?” he added, determined that Greg and Sherlock would begin to work on it immediately.

“What’s the Kirkcudbright case?” Sherlock asked.

Greg pointed at Mycroft. “Oh no. No. Don’t do that.”

“I was merely enquiring.”

“No you’re not,” Greg said. “You’re trying to get Sherlock interested.”

Mycroft raised his eyebrows. “You made your feelings on Sherlock’s involvement in the case quite clear, Detective Inspector.”

“What’s the Kirkcudbright case?” Sherlock asked again.

“Stop it, Mycroft,” Greg warned.

Mycroft smiled, twirling his umbrella in his hand. “Well, since you’re both getting along so well, I suppose I should leave you to your lifting and carrying.”

“Not gonna stay and help build the wardrobe then?” Greg asked.

Sherlock snorted. “Mycroft get his fingers dirty?”

Mycroft glared at his brother. “Good afternoon, Detective Inspector. Sherlock.” He turned and walked back through the door and down the stairs. He got into the car and messaged Anthea to ask her to check where Greg had chosen to live.

* * *

The block of flats were at the back of a supermarket car park. Upon stepping into the hallway, Mycroft noted the dampness on the walls, and a blazing row coming from upstairs. He pulled a face as he walked through, becoming more displeased with every step.

Any fool could see Greg Lestrade deserved better than the location (a half hour drive to New Scotland Yard even on a good day) and he’d probably end up giving himself some sort of respiratory problem if he stayed there too long.

Greg’s door was open at the end of the corridor, some boxes stacked outside. Mycroft bent down to pick one up, hooking his umbrella over the crook of his arm.

“This is where you are living?” Mycroft asked as he stood in the doorway.

Greg froze for a moment, his body tensing under his t-shirt. He was wearing scuffed up jeans which clung to him in ways Mycroft was going to pretend not to notice. Greg turned to face him. “Yeah. What’s wrong with it?”

“Greg, what’s right with it?” Greg took a few steps towards him, taking the box from Mycroft’s hands. Their fingers brushed together, and Mycroft felt himself bristle at the contact. Such a small thing, but enough to force him to take a small step backwards. He watched as Greg carried the box into a room Mycroft supposed was his bedroom.

“Look, I don’t have much choice at the moment,” Greg called out to him. “I’m still paying half the mortgage on the old flat.”

Mycroft raised his eyebrows, brushing his fingers against the back of Greg’s worn-out, charity shop-bought sofa. “I suggest putting an end to that particular outgoing very quickly. You’re not living here, it’s worse than Sherlock’s.”

Greg stepped back out and crossed his arms. “It’s all I can afford.”

“Let me help you.”

“I am not taking money from you.”

“You won’t be,” Mycroft said. “Let me just ask some contacts if they can find you more suitable accommodation.”

“It’s suitable,” Greg protested. Mycroft raised his eyebrows. Greg held his hands up. “Fine. Do what you want.”

“That is the correct answer,” Mycroft said, allowing himself a cool smile. They held each other’s eyes, a tension simmering there. Mycroft swallowed, his feet glued to the floor.

Greg took four strides over to him. “Guess there’s no point unpacking then,” he said.

Mycroft smiled. “Quite,” he replied, his heart hammering against his chest. He had tingles down his arms, his breath hitching a little as Greg reached him. Greg just held his eyes and neither moved.

Mycroft narrowed his eyes a little, his tongue flicking out to wet his lips. He should say something, he thought. Or at the very least, turn and leave. But he wanted to kiss him, to grab him, push him into the bedroom, have his way with him and then leave. At least it would get him out of his system.

His phone vibrated once in his pocket before the ringing began. Mycroft fished it out. “I must take this,” he said. “I’ll be away for a while. Look after Sherlock.”

Greg nodded, and Mycroft lifted his phone as he began to walk out.

“The Times has just released its front page story,” Anthea said. “It’s called Torture Flights. What the Prime Minister tried to cover up.”

Mycroft smiled and slid into the car. “Not our responsibility,” he said.

“Are you sure? We won’t get into trouble?”

“Anthea, trust me. This is for the Prime Minister’s press team to deal with. Have a good evening.”

“You too, sir.”

Mycroft hung up and put his phone away. As he leaned back in his seat, he wished it wasn’t Greg’s face he saw in the back of his mind.

The next day, he rung up Andrew Regis, the Shadow Chancellor for Education. The man owed him a favour for the last time Mycroft had bailed him out. Mycroft also knew he happened to have a flat available in Petty France. After five minutes of negotiations, in which Mr Regis conceded to all of Mycroft’s demands, Mycroft had found Greg a flat in a prime location to the Yard and with all the fixtures and fittings he could need.

He rang up one of his drivers, Malcolm, to show Greg around. He knew full-well that Greg would hate having someone go to so much trouble for him. He had his pride.

Mycroft was in the car being driven home from the office when Malcolm called him. In the background he could hear Greg’s voice. “Look, really. You can tell Mycroft it’s great. But it’s really not for me. I don’t want him to do me any favours… What? Oh bloody hell, the bastard’s on the phone isn’t he? What?” he asked roughly.

Mycroft smiled to himself. “Now, now, Greg,” he said, amused.

“I appreciate it, Mycroft,” Greg told him. “But it’s too much.”

“Nonsense.”

“I’m going to spend every day thinking I owe you something.”

“You don’t.” Mycroft paused for a second. “Although, you could show Sherlock the Kirkcudbright files.”

Greg burst out laughing and Mycroft smiled to himself in return, a warm flutter in his stomach. “As far as bribes go, this is the most ridiculous one I’ve ever had.”

“You can still have the flat, even if you don’t,” Mycroft told him.

“Fine. I’ll take it if it makes you happy,” Greg said.

“It does,” Mycroft confirmed.

“I’ll have you round for pizza sometime. You can bring the wine.”

Mycroft opened his mouth and closed it again. No, he wanted to say. No, we shall not be continuing our social interaction with one another. But he couldn’t say it. Even though his chest felt tight and he wanted to bang his head against the car window, he replied with: “I would like that.”

“Right,” Greg replied, his voice surprised. “Then. Well. Thanks. Have a good trip.”

“Goodnight, Greg.”

“Night.”

Mycroft hung up and frowned. “Bugger,” he muttered to himself.


	10. Strategy

**January 2006.**

**Location: Coeur de Lion Offices, Mayfair, London.**

“Tell me I have this wrong,” Mycroft said as he turned to the relevant page in the newspaper. “Russia thinks we’re spying on them using a fake rock?”

The young MI6 officer twiddled his thumbs, not able to meet his eyes. “You’ve not got that wrong,” he agreed.

“A fake rock.”

“Yes.”

Mycroft frowned and looked up at him. “ _Are_ we spying on Russia using a fake rock?” he asked.

“Well…”

“Are we?”

“Would you like the honest answer?” the man asked. Mycroft raised his eyebrows. “Right, well. Yes, we are spying on Russia using a fake rock. Or we were until they found it.”

Mycroft sat back in his chair, shaking his head. “Oh good lord…” he muttered. He had no idea what he’d done wrong to be lumbered with people with the forethought of a fly.

“It’s not as ridiculous as it sounds.”

“No, you’re right,” Mycroft scorned. “It’s a 100 times worse than it sounds.”

“We did get some useful intel… Which the Russians now know we have, admittedly…”

Mycroft groaned. “This sounds like an absurd plotline from a terrible 1980s film.”

“It does. A bit. I agree. But Mr Holmes-”

Mycroft held his hand up. “No. Don’t try to excuse it. Does the Prime Minister know?”

“No.”

“Keep it that way. We have to deny this. No one will believe it anyway. It’s so far-fetched everyone will think the Russians are paranoid and playing a pathetic game of political chess.”

“And therein lies the genius behind it.”

Mycroft glared at him. “Don’t.”

“Right,” the man muttered. “Yes, okay, fine, it’s ridiculous but it worked for a while.”

“I never, ever want to hear of a plot like this again.”

“Yes, sir.”

Mycroft shook his head in exasperation and pointed to the door. “Out,” he commanded and the man jumped out of his chair, nodding his head and almost bowing as he scuttled out. Mycroft let out a long breath. Good heavens, was this really the best in the British security services? The country was doomed. When he’d started, it was full of bright minds, full of ambition and dedication. Now they thought hiding computer equipment in fake rocks counted as successful espionage.

Anthea knocked on the door several minutes later, carrying in a tray of drinks. She had to bite back a laugh. “Is it true?” she asked.

Mycroft groaned. “MI6 is a terrible place without you in it,” he muttered, taking a coffee from the tray.

“Yes,” Anthea agreed with a smile as she sat down. “But that bird has flown.”

“They were idiots to fire you, if you ask me.”

Anthea smiled. “I appreciate that.”

“Mmm. A fake rock, Anthea. A fake rock. Now tell me, who in their right mind thought that was going to be a good idea?”

Anthea laughed, sliding the newspaper across the desk so she could read the story. “No one’s going to think it’s true.”

“No. I expect the Prime Minister will deny it.” Mycroft paused for a moment. “I need some documents photocopied.”

Anthea nodded. “Yes, sir?”

“I want to ask Greg Lestrade to sign the Official Secrets Act. If he’s working with Sherlock, then my brother’s going to give away the nature of my job eventually. I’d rather it happened with my say-so and not on one of Sherlock’s whims.”

“I will get one photocopied.”

“Thank you. I was contemplating telling Greg Lestrade about Tatiana Garzone. What do you think?”

Anthea frowned. “Why?” she asked.

“He’s a good policeman by all accounts. He might know something we missed. No one on our side is particularly concerned about _who_ killed her, only who ordered the killing.” He paused, studying her. “It was a momentary thought, perhaps I won’t.”

“He’s a good policeman,” Anthea repeated. “And he cares, I think.”

“I agree. Too much. What do you make of him?”

“From what perspective?”

“You’re good at empathy, Anthea. I respect your views.”

She smiled and sipped her peppermint tea. “He cares about his cases. He was reluctant to let you take the Tatiana Garzone case in the first place.”

“I agree. But I deduced that already.”

“Something must have happened. There must be one he hasn’t solved.”

“Mmm. Yes.”

“He’s trustworthy,” she continued. “He has a way with people. A very natural charm. He often has an open and welcoming posture. He uses eye contact a lot. He knows how to make people - and victims - feel at ease. He has a very caring nature.”

“But?”

“He may be trustworthy, but he isn’t necessarily trusting. He always looks sceptical when you talk.”

Mycroft frowned. “Always?”

“Yes. He likes to be trusted though. He remains warm to Sherlock and encourages his behaviour, because he wants Sherlock working with him, not against him. He doesn’t push you about your work because he wants you to trust him too.”

“Carry on.”

“I think if you tell him about Tatiana Garzone, he will feel included. It may encourage him to share the Kirkcudbright case with Sherlock.”

Mycroft nodded. “I can see that happening, yes.”

“If you work with him, rather than pushing him, then he’s more likely to do what you want.”

“Most people in this office respond to the stick rather than the carrot.”

Anthea smiled. “That’s because most people are afraid of you.”

Mycroft nodded. “You’re right. He’s not afraid. I don’t know if that’s because he doesn’t know the nature of our work, or because he’s… unique.”

“He’s unique,” Anthea said. “He does know enough about our work to have reason to be cautious of you. But he isn’t afraid of you, because he fears being left alone more than he fears anything else.”

“How do you work that out?”

“He found out about his wife’s affair, and yet it was months until they split up. In fact, she left him, not the other way around.”

“He fears abandonment,” Mycroft agreed.

“He fears being shut out of everything. Of course, on the other hand, he excludes himself too. Better to protect himself by locking himself away than to put himself out there and put his… heart on the line.”

“His heart,” Mycroft muttered, frowning at her.

“He’s not actively looking for another partner. He doesn’t go on dates. We’ve been following his movements for months. He goes to work and he goes home. He plays football and he occasionally goes to the gym or for a run. But that’s all. And he goes for meals with you.”

Mycroft narrowed his eyes. “It’s for work.”

Anthea nodded. “Of course it is,” she said, but there was a tone in her voice which suggested she wasn’t being entirely truthful about that.

Mycroft ignored it. “So, I do tell him about Tatiana Garzone.”

“Yes. And if you want my suggestion, you invite him to your home.”

“Why?”

“Because you don’t invite anyone else there. We agree that he’s unique. Treat him that way.” Anthea stood up and smiled. “Would you like me to confirm the meeting?”

Mycroft nodded. “Go right ahead,” he said.

* * *

Mycroft was in his home office when he heard the door open. He stayed silent, sitting behind his desk. He was uncomfortable already, and Greg had only arrived a few seconds ago. He wasn’t used to having anyone in his flat apart from himself, his housekeeper and his cleaner. It felt like some horrible invasion of his privacy. This wasn't just where he went to bed - it was where he kept the things he liked. His books, his CDs, his favourite pieces of art. This was his home, and he'd chosen the furniture himself. Having someone else in his space was unpleasant. 

He stood up, walking through his office and stepping out into the living room. Greg was stood by the bookcase, browsing the spines.

“Good evening,” Mycroft said, eyeing him with interest. Greg seemed relaxed, but definitely curious, taking an interest in Mycroft's possesions. 

Greg smiled and shrugged. “Alright. I was just admiring your library.”

“It’s a few bookcases, hardly a library.”

“It’s more than I’ve got.”

Mycroft smiled a little. “Would you like a drink?” he asked, hoping it would stop him from feeling so uncomfortable..

“Yeah, go for it. I’ll have whatever you’re having.”

Mycroft walked over to his table, pouring out two glasses of brandy. He’d had a few new bottles sent to him, and he’d been looking for an excuse to sample them. Greg took his coat and scarf off, hovering awkwardly as he looked for somewhere to put them. “Just put them on a chair,” Mycroft told him. “And please, sit down.”

Greg took a seat on the sofa. “Nice place this.”

“Yes.”

“Tell me about it.”

Mycroft paused for a moment, not understanding what Greg wanted. But after a few moments, he told him about the history of Crusader House. It was built in the late 1800s, and Mycroft wouldn’t admit that he’d chosen it for its name. He had always had a soft spot for Richard the Lionheart. Indeed, he’d named the Coeur de Lion offices after the king. He had fought in the crusades, and so Crusader House had been the perfect place for him to live.

The fact that his butler, cleaner and housekeeper could live upstairs if they chose to do so was only an advantage.

“So now you’ve got me here,” Greg said. “What did you want to ask me?”

“How is Sherlock?” Mycroft asked.

“He’s fine. Keeps asking me about the Kirkcudbright case. Thanks for that, by the way.”

Mycroft smiled. “I maintain he will be of use.”

“Yeah. Maybe.”

Mycroft opened his mouth, about to demand Greg gave the case to his brother. But he paused, remembering Anthea’s words. Greg required the carrot, not the stick. “I have some paperwork I would like you to sign before I inform you of the purpose of this visit.”

Greg raised his eyebrows. “Paperwork? You know I have enough paperwork at work to deal with, right?”

Mycroft didn’t say a word as he stood up, walking to his office. It took a few moments before he realised Greg wasn’t following him. He gestured for him to come in and Greg finally walked in after him. Mycroft handed him the documents, sitting and watching him as Greg read them and signed them. 

At least it was an added level of security. And Mycroft had no reason to distrust him. He'd not let him down so far, and he'd been nothing but loyal as far as Sherlock was concerned. 

He led them back to the living room, and they sat together on the sofa, both leaning against their respective armrests at opposite ends. He smiled in amusement as Greg topped up their glasses with more brandy than he’d have poured out himself. He’d made himself so comfortable. And although it was disconcerting, Mycroft had already decided to both allow it and encourage it.

He sipped his drink, considering what he was going to say. He stared down into his glass, swirling the liquid around for a moment before speaking. “The woman’s name was Tatiana Garzone. And her husband was a spy for the Federal Security Service Of The Russian Federation.” He sighed softly. It went against all of his training to give so much away to a civilian. He knew he had to demonstrate some form of trust, but he wasn’t convinced he wanted it to be at the possible expense of an important investigation. “I don’t know how much to say,” he admitted.

“Surely you can say as much or as little as you want?” Greg said. “I mean, I signed that document stuff, so you know better than me what you can tell me.”

“Yes, quite,” Mycroft agreed. “As much as it may surprise you, Greg, my role in the British Government is slightly more than I have told you in the past.”

Greg chuckled. “No shit.

Mycroft half-smiled. “I’m not sure how much I should disclose.”

“Just as much as you want,” he said.

Mycroft sighed. He preferred to deal with people who pushed. Not those who accepted what they were given with no hint of an ulterior motive. Greg Lestrade was unique, but it was infuriating, all the same.

“Very well. My position in the British Government overlaps between several roles. It is not a job anyone has held before, nor do I expect they will again. I have found I have made myself… invaluable, to certain people in numerous areas of the country’s national and international security. Quite by chance, you understand. Much of my career has been spent dealing with our international security, although I find this is gradually expanding in both national and international matters and involving more… diplomatic concerns. I expect diplomacy will be coming into my role more and more in the next few years. I don’t expect this will be the last case I take off your hands, Greg.”

Greg nodded. “Yeah. I kind of guessed that.”

Mycroft watched him. “You’re surprised I went to you myself.”

“Yeah. Well. You could have gone higher than me. Much higher. I mean, my team heard about the body first, but it doesn’t give us ownership of that case or anything.”

Mycroft, remembering Anthea’s analysis of the man, looked straight into his eyes. “I trust you,” he said. Greg’s eyes widened and Mycroft smiled in response. It had clearly been the right thing to say, and he would have to remember to thank his assistant for that.

“Um. Well. That’s good, right?”

“I believe so,” Mycroft confirmed. “To the matter at hand. Tatiana Garzone’s husband was killed six months ago. In Romania, I believe, although that has never been confirmed. The fact she was murdered is no coincidence, and that is what we are investigating.”

“So you’re no closer to finding the bastard who killed her?”

“Sadly no. But we will continue trying.”

Greg sat back in the chair, finishing his drink. “Thank you,” he finally said, full of sincerity. He looked at Mycroft. “I get that you didn’t need to tell me all that. But the fact you did… well, I do appreciate it.” Greg looked around. “So, don’t you have a TV?”

Mycroft chuckled. “I do have a television. I don’t tend to watch it.”

“What do you do for fun?”

“I’m sorry?”

“Fun. How do you have it?”

“I enjoy my work,” Mycroft said.

“That’s not fun,” Greg laughed. “Alright, forget fun. How do you relax?”

“I read a book. I listen to some music.”

“Do you play games?”

Mycroft smiled a little. Oh he played games all the time, but he doubted they were the kind Greg had in mind. “What sort of games?”

“Cards? Not chess, you’ll beat me hands down in five minutes.”

Mycroft stood up and went into his office. He wasn’t sure if he had any games. Sherlock took all of their childhood board games and Mycroft didn’t have enough company to warrant keeping any himself. Frowning, he hunted around in some of his drawers until he found a pack of cards.

He returned to the living room with the leather-bound box. “Cards,” he said, sitting down and setting the box on the table. He opened it and took them out. He tipped them into his hand and began to shuffle them.

They ended up playing a game Greg called ‘Bullshit’, where they had to lie about which card they had in their hands. And it turned out Mycroft couldn’t read Greg’s lies as expertly as he thought he could. But he soon learnt. Greg, like everyone else, had his tells. And once Mycroft had dissected them and filed them away for future reference, it was easy to win the game.

Greg topped their glasses up. Mycroft sat back, savouring his. Greg had far more to drink than he had but Mycroft could still feel the softness in his mind, the way the world slowed down a little. His thoughts reached an easy pace and he could sit back and enjoy it.

Greg, on the other hand, knocked back his drink. Mycroft raised his eyebrows. “That’s a 1973 vintage,” he said.

“And it’s good,” Greg agreed. “You know, Mycroft, for a man who claims to know me so well you look surprised at me quite a lot.”

“You are impulsive,” Mycroft said, studying him. “And that can be terribly difficult to predict.”

“So I do surprise you?”

“Frequently,” Mycroft agreed.

“Is that a good thing?”

“You’d be amazed how rarely I am ever shocked by anything. I find it strangely refreshing.”

Greg laughed, looking around the room. He certainly seemed tipsy. Mycroft watched him with amusement, sipping his drink. Greg turned his head to meet his eyes. Mycroft swallowed. Here they were again, he thought. Swept up in each other’s eyes, the closeness. They didn’t have anywhere to run to. Mycroft suddenly regretted leaving his mobile in his office.

But one night with him and Mycroft was sure he could get it out of his system. Five years of celibacy was pointless anyway. He hadn’t achieved anything, and he was certain the only reason he desired Greg at all was because he had denied himself for so long.

Greg put his own glass down on the table before taking the glass from Mycroft’s hands, their fingers brushing together. The contact set Mycroft’s nerves alight. And yes, he knew he craved more of Greg’s touch.

“I don’t get you, Mycroft,” Greg said, his voice low, his arms folded across his chest. “I really don’t get you at all.”

“I’m not here with you to make friends, Greg.”

“Good,” Greg replied. “That’s good.”

They sat in stony silence for a moment before Greg lifted one leg up onto the sofa, sliding closer to Mycroft. And though Mycroft could feel his space being invaded, he never flinched. He wanted this. To see just how far Greg would go. How far Mycroft could push him.

Mycroft thought one night, one quick and easy night of sex, would push Greg away. He’d never look back and they could maintain a solid working relationship without those awkward silences.

“So then. What are you here for?” Greg asked. “You always call me and tell me to see you. Could just as easily ask about Sherlock on the phone.” He reached out, his hand touching Mycroft’s shoulder. Mycroft clenched his jaw, trying to suppress his nerves. “I think you like to see me.”

Their eyes remained locked together. The whole world had reduced to the two of them, waiting, testing. They were so close, sharing the same air. And he could just kiss him. He hoped it would be as he imagined. Wild but considerate. He hoped he would be able to stop thinking, to just relax and for a few moments, lose himself.

Greg lifted one hand to cup Mycroft’s jaw, and it was… wonderful. When Oliver had done it, it had felt wrong. Like someone was trying to make him feel uncomfortable. But not with Greg.

Greg had lightly flushed cheeks, his lips parted. The attraction and desire was obvious in his eyes, but so was the hesitance. “Your move,” Greg muttered.

And there, just there, was the very reason Mycroft wanted to have sex with Greg Lestrade. Because in those two words, Greg had asked for Mycroft’s consent. It wasn’t as though Mycroft had ever had a bad sexual encounter where he’d felt out of his depth or taken advantage of. But those two words made Greg Lestrade different, and God, Mycroft felt as though he’d already done everything he could to work the man out. He’d failed. No matter how much Anthea analysed the man, how much Mycroft knew about him, he remained an enigma. He was unpredictable. And undeterred by Mycroft’s job, his coldness.

What had he seen? Mycroft wanted to know. How did Greg see the world so differently? He put his hand down on Greg’s thigh. Greg gave an intake of breath, a soft pleased sound that made Mycroft’s own cheeks warm.

Greg grinned. He had perfect teeth, straight and white. And then he leaned forward and their lips met in a hot and needy kiss. Mycroft gave in.

They’d smashed down the wall now, and that was it. It was a kiss with the heat of a million nuclear explosions, desperate and… yes, wild. It was tongue and teeth and perhaps too little finesse. But it hardly mattered. What did it matter, when the kiss came after months of tension and need? And when it came after years of denial on Mycroft’s part?

He heard Greg’s breathy groans and Mycroft flicked their tongues together. He took control of the pace, drawing Greg’s bottom lip between his own as he sucked and brushed his teeth against it. Greg’s body relaxed and he was putty in Mycroft’s hands, his body easing into Mycroft’s embrace.

Greg closed one possessive hand around the back of Mycroft’s neck and he felt claimed. And he felt needed and desired, and if that wasn’t intoxicating then nothing was. Mycroft wrapped his arms around Greg’s firm body, pulling him closer, until his cock pressed against Greg’s thigh and he could feel the other man’s hardness against him.

He didn’t want to end it now. He could only be taken by arousal and want, pure, red hot, want.

Mycroft curled his fingers in Greg’s shirt, claiming him in return. He’d never felt so reckless. Greg’s sounds went straight to Mycroft’s groin, and those desperate noises were better than any alcohol for his confidence. He pushed Greg down onto the settee, rubbing Greg’s nipple through his shirt. They were each panting, Mycroft’s lips trailing kisses down Greg’s jaw before meeting his lips again. He didn’t want to stop kissing him.

He tasted like everything he’d dreamt of, and his groans were like melted chocolate, sensual and full of sweetness. He leaned on one hand as he fumbled with Greg’s jeans, praising the invention of denim for the first time in his life because of the way it clung to Greg’s thighs.

And as Mycroft pushed his hand under the waistband of the man’s boxers and closed his hand around Greg’s length he could have thanked the God he didn’t believe existed. Greg’s cock was hard in his hand, the head wet with precome. The man’s body was positively trembling beneath him, his eyes dark with need.

“Please,” Greg whispered. “Please.”

Greg’s sweet surrender turned Mycroft’s body to jelly. And then Greg reached for Mycroft’s belt. It was more than Mycroft expected if he were honest. And he wasn’t sure he was ready to give up control like that. He could take Greg apart with his hand and his tongue, and then maybe he could roll Greg onto his front and fuck him into the chair. He wouldn’t have to see Greg’s face, he could keep it anonymous, just as he preferred.

“You don’t need to,” Mycroft murmured, and he could have cursed how resentful those words sounded. It was all he wanted, but he wasn’t sure he could…

“I really fucking do,” Greg breathed out as he unfastened Mycroft’s belt. Mycroft let out an involuntary shiver, catching his breath in anticipation. Greg cupped Mycroft’s cock through his trousers and Mycroft let his eyes fall closed for one split second, focusing only on Greg's touch. He trusted Greg. He trusted Greg with his body, and to see him defenceless and not use it against him. 

And then Greg was pulling his trousers and underwear down Mycroft’s thighs, taking his cock in his hand and stroking. Mycroft shuddered, arching into Greg’s hand before lowering his head and capturing his mouth in a deep kiss, searching and devouring.

He resumed stroking Greg’s cock, matching his rhythm as they panted together. Greg would groan and gasp and Mycroft willed the man to never stop making those sounds. He would lock it away in his mind for whenever he needed an escape. Because this was the one and only time they would do this.

But for now… for now he couldn’t think. It was him. Greg. Him and Greg. Pleasure.

Greg arched up, his head tilting backwards, lips parted as he let out a low moan. Mycroft bit his neck, and Greg shuddered. His body tensed as he came, spilling over Mycroft’s hand. But Greg never got so lost in his pleasure that he neglected Mycroft, and he continued his movements while Mycroft buried his head in Greg’s neck, smelling that aftershave again - cocoa and cedar.

His skin was on fire, and he had prickles on the back of his neck. He could feel the pressure mounting, and it went white behind his eyes. He bit his lip as he came, his body shaking, twitching, everything going still.

Mycroft’s body moulded itself against Greg’s. They lay there as they fought to get their breaths back. Somewhere in the back of his head, he thought about the consequences but he wiped the concerns aside.

He felt at peace.

No.

He had to move.

There was nothing in the universe he wanted to do less. But he sat up, pressing a soft kiss to the corner of Greg’s mouth, considering how that was the last one he’d ever give the man. They were done. Greg was out of his system.

Mycroft sat up, adjusting his clothes and trying to compose himself. “I will just go to the bathroom,” he said, and he stood up and walked away.

He locked the door and leaned against it, closing his eyes. Consequences. He couldn’t take back what they’d just done. He wasn’t even sure he wanted to.

He washed his hands, staring at his face in the mirror. The man looking back at him was at ease and rested, cheeks pink and lips red. He looked younger. Mycroft splashed some water on his face before dabbing it with a towel. He rolled his shoulders and straightened his clothes.

He composed himself. Appearing in control was important, in fact no, it was vital.

He walked out, and saw Greg sat on the edge of the sofa, biting his bottom lip. “I should go,” he said. “I’ve got work tomorrow.”

“Yes,” Mycroft agreed, his voice firm.

Greg nodded. “Thanks for the game and the drink. We should do this again sometime.”

“I don’t imagine I will be looking for a repeat performance any time soon,” Mycroft informed him.

“Was it that bad?” Greg frowned.

“On the contrary. But I am far too busy to devote much time to such self-indulgent practises.”

Greg stood up and to Mycroft’s astonishment he… laughed. “Having sex isn’t self-indulgent. It’s fun.”

Bewildering, Mycroft thought. He had all but thrown the man out of his flat and Greg… accepted it.

“Have a good trip,” Greg said.

Mycroft couldn’t resist touching him one last time and he reached out and squeezed Greg’s shoulder. “Thank you. I will be in touch.”

Greg smiled a little and he headed for the door, not even turning around to look back at Mycroft. Mycroft watched him though. Those jeans were obscene. The door closed.

Mycroft sunk down onto the settee. He stared at the wall. In his mind, he heard only mocking laughter. Did you really think you could just fuck and not care? the voices asked.

Mycroft swallowed and reached for the table to pick up a glass of whiskey. It was Greg’s glass, one smudged fingerprint on the side. He sipped the drink and glanced around his home. It had never seemed so empty.

His bed, when he went there, had never seemed so cold.

And when he slept, he dreamt of straight white teeth and dark brown eyes. He dreamt of strong arms. He woke up feeling wanted. Until he opened his eyes, and all he saw was emptiness. 


	11. The Captive

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Graphic depiction of violence and torture from the beginning, including waterboarding and whipping. To skip it, skip all of the italics.

**November 1995.**

**Location: Iran.**

_Cold water was splashed into his face. He spluttered, trying to lift his arm to wipe the lukewarm liquid away, but he couldn’t move. He couldn’t see from behind the blindfold. He was tied up to a table, his arms pulled painfully up above his head, his muscles pulled tort._

_“Finally, he’s awake,” a voice said from near Mycroft’s feet. He squirmed in silence, but his legs were being held down firmly by someone’s hands._

_He tried to remember what had happened. He’d been in a car. Driving with… with Toby Goff and Lizzie Case. They’d been discussing extraction plans to remove an American hostage when… when the car in front had exploded before their eyes. They’d rushed out. Of course they had, they had friends and colleagues in that car._

_Something had hit the back of Mycroft’s head from behind. In an instant, everything had gone black. And now he remembered the searing pain, he could feel it on the back of his skull, from where his head pressed against the hard tabletop._

_Stop, he commanded himself._

_Just stop._

_The swirling thoughts were not helping. He had to concentrate on the here and now. How many men were in the room? There were two at his feet. One holding his left foot down, the other holding his right foot. One had large hands, hotter and sweatier. The other’s were smaller. Two men. Then there was the breath coming from above his head, so that was a third man. Oh, his head hurt._

_Pain. Pain could be controlled. He needed to concentrate on other, more relevant questions._

_How many? Three men. Where? The man's voice had echoed a bit, so it was a stone room, with solid walls and a concrete floor. It had a chill, despite the heat outside. So it was a shaded building, perhaps under some trees. That didn’t  answer the question. And without knowing how long he’d been out cold, he couldn’t ascertain how many miles away from base they might have taken him._

_“Who are you with?” came the question._

_Mycroft stayed silent. He half expected Toby and Lizzie were dead. The three others in the car were, almost definitely. Jimmy Dine had reluctantly stayed at base that morning and Mycroft imagined the man had probably pledged an axe murder by now. He’d have been cursing, throwing things, probably taking his anger out on any poor CIA youngster._

_“Who do you work for?”_

_Mycroft knew he didn’t have any identification on him. They didn’t know who he was. But they probably knew he was English or suspected he was American._

_“I said, who do you work for?”_

_The man had an Iranian accent, which wasn’t surprising. Mycroft wished he’d learnt to speak Farsi. That would have been helpful. It would have taken them by surprise for a few moments at least. Instead, he knew Mandarin and Russian and Urdu and Spanish, and none of them were going to be helpful._

_Farsi was a beautiful language, why hadn’t he considered it important enough to learn?_

_He heard the sound of running water. being poured into some metal container. It sounded distant, but God, his mouth was dry. How long had he been lying there, tied up at their mercy? He hated not knowing. It could have been night for all he knew. He couldn’t even get a sense of light behind the blindfold._

_“One more time,” the man said. “Who are you here with?”_

_No answer. Mycroft would sooner die than give the others up. He probably would die. He thought of his family. Would these men give them his body or would they just dump it somewhere? Or would they use him as a hostage, trying to extort money from the British Government? The Government didn’t negotiate with terrorists. He would die. Would they drag it out? Cut off his fingers and then his limbs? Or would they make it quick?_

_Perhaps he shouldn’t have turned down Jimmy Dine’s date offers…_

_A hand forced his mouth open. A wet, cold towel covered his mouth and nose. He gagged and spluttered as water dripped into his mouth and down his nose. His legs shook. He was drowning._

_And in that instant, he couldn’t think of his family or Jimmy or his work, or of being a good man. All he thought, was he didn’t want to die and he would do everything in his power to stop that from happening. He felt searing pain in his lungs as they filled with water. He was drowning. He tried to kick out. From the bottom of his throat… Just water. And then the cloth was yanked away and he gasped for breath, spitting out the liquid left in his mouth._

_“Who are you here with?”_

_And the towel covered his mouth again. So dark. He could only choke. It was harrowing. Feeling that close to death. Drowning all over again, like being dropped into an ocean attached to a bag full of bricks. Deeper, deeper, sinking._

_“You’re going to tell us. Or I will do this again. And again.”_

_The towel was pulled away. Mycroft gasped for breath and tried to kick his legs, but they were pinned down. His whole body was shaking, the world felt as though it was spinning. They were going to kill him like that. And nothing else had ever hurt so much. “Speak.”_

_“No,” he whispered, his voice hoarse._

_The towel covered his face again and the man pinched his nose. He gagged and more water was poured onto his face through the towel. He was drowning again. He was sure his lungs were filling with water._

_His heart was pounding in his chest, he wanted to scream but couldn’t. The towel was pulled away and he gagged and coughed._

_“Please,” he whispered. And oh God, he couldn’t handle it. He didn’t want to die, but he couldn’t give anything away. So, he would just have to endure. But he could not take it anymore. He wanted them to get it over with. He wanted them to kill him._

_“Who are you here with?”_

_But he couldn’t say. He thought of Jimmy Dine. The man had been so open with him, showing him the tricks of the trade. He’d ignored all his advances, and now he was lying here about to die, he wasn’t sure why he'd turned him down. He liked him well enough. He was intelligent, attractive. He had a reputation for being impulsive and acting with his heart and not his head. He was rash but decisive, and that was a good quality at least. Mycroft thought of him and knew he wouldn’t betray him._

_And so the torture continued._

_It didn’t matter that Mycroft knew it was called waterboarding and that deep down he knew too that his lungs were not filling with water. It certainly felt as though he was drowning. As good as dead._

_Over what felt like several hours, he passed out once. Every time the towel was lifted, his body shook and he felt tears streaming down his face. He began to wish he were dead. He couldn’t take it anymore._

_Suddenly his hands were being untied and he was lifted to a sitting position. He was shoved off the table, and he cracked his right knee hard on the concrete floor. He yelled out in pain, unable to move. There was a kick to his stomach and he rolled onto his side, his hands still tied together, his fingers clutching for something… anything to hold onto. Footsteps marched past him, all three men left. A door slammed closed. He lay shaking on the ground, crying._

_He was alone._

_They’d broken him._

_Broken him, and yet he hadn’t said a word. He hadn’t betrayed Jimmy and the others._

_He tried to lift the blindfold off his face, but he felt too weak._

_He couldn’t sleep. Couldn’t move. He lay on the hard floor, where his joints ached and his body cried out for food and a drink. He imagined Jimmy’s wide smile, the way he always sang when he was in a good mood. Mycroft could only hope he was still alive._

_Someone fed him rice. He sipped lukewarm water. But they didn’t take his blindfold off, and even when he was alone, he made no effort to remove it. Somehow he must have slept._

_The torture continued. It may have been the same day. It could have been the next day. He didn’t know anymore. He prayed for it to end. He thought about Sherlock and his parents and silently told them he was sorry. For what, he wasn’t sure._

_He drowned so many times over, or so it felt. His captors were growing frustrated with him. Mycroft knew some CIA operatives gave in within two minutes of this form of torture. He had nothing to do but to cling to the thought of Jimmy._

_Another day may have passed, and he was fed more rice and drank more water._

_The waterboarding stopped. The questions didn’t. He was tied up to a column in the scorching heat, his shirt ripped from his body. He thought this had to be it. They’d shoot him in the head or slit his throat like a cow, ready to end up on a plate. At least it would be over._

_When the first blow came down on his back, he yelled out, the sharp snap of the whip sending streaks of pain through every nerve._

_“Shut up!” the man cried out and the whip came down hard on his back again with a crack. He bit back the cry. It was scorching, unending pain, spreading from the tips of his fingers right through to his toes. Behind his eyes, he imagined his skin breaking. Blood running down his back._

_Oh, please, he needed them to just kill him. Why didn’t they just kill him?_

_A third lash. The silent tears streamed down his face. He was in agony. He thought he heard a car. Now he was hallucinating. He’d lost sense of time and space long ago. He couldn’t even hear what his captors shouted anymore, it was just background noise. In his ears, all he heard was his heavy breathing and the thumping of his heart._

_A fourth lash. He cried out, and his knees would have buckled if he hadn’t been so tightly tied to the column. His body was on fire. He swallowed back the bile in his throat. He licked his lips. They felt dry and gritty. Tasted of salt. He took one long deep breath, but took no comfort from it. Sweat was running down his face and down his back, or maybe that was blood. He didn’t know._

_He was ready now. If they shot him in the head and ended it, then he was ready. He hadn’t betrayed anyone._

_Five. They hadn’t stopped. He sobbed. He was begging for someone to kill him, but he couldn’t make out what he was saying and… Bang. A gunshot. Another. That wasn’t him though, he hadn’t been shot._

_The sounds… pop, pop, pop, guns, bangs. All he could hear was screaming and yelling and angry voices, but it all sounded so distant to him. They were shouting in Arabic and English… English? American._

_“Get the fuck down!” and Mycroft knew that voice was Jimmy’s._

_He could only cry. He half expected to be shot, maybe in some awful friendly fire incident. He flinched as a hand touched his wrists and his bindings were being unfastened. He collapsed to the floor, landing on his cracked knee. He dropped his head into his hands. Arms were being wrapped around him. He was being eased onto what felt like a stretcher. Gentle hands were easing away the blindfold, but he refused to open his eyes. He couldn’t for a second allow himself to believe he was being saved._

_Everything went dark._

* * *

_The room smelt sterile. But he was lying on something soft. He reached out, touching cotton beneath his fingertips. He dared to open his eyes. He was lying on a bed. There was a picture of a butterfly on the wall. Was that supposed to be comforting?_

_He tried to move, but everything ached. He closed his eyes, letting out a soft sigh. He refused to think of the past few days. Instead, he tried to blank it out. He felt peaceful. And then…_

_“You are a fucking idiot!” came a yell from the room outside. Mycroft opened his eyes and blinked into the harsh lights of the hospital wing. “Don’t you dare walk away from me! You should have seen this coming. That man is just 26 years old. And you let that happen to him!”_

_“Jimmy Dine, you do not talk to me like that!” Toby Goff shouted back at him._

_Mycroft groaned._

_“Well I’m the only fucking person in this building with the balls to do it!” Jimmy shouted back._

_“You are not helping,” Toby said and then a door slammed. Mycroft winced. He closed his as eyes as footsteps marched towards the door to the medical room. The door opened. He recognised those determined footsteps. Jimmy._

_Jimmy sunk down into a chair beside the bed. Mycroft paused, trying to work out his next move. Did he admit to be awake? Or did he leave it until Jimmy went, so he didn’t have to try and explain what he'd gone through._

_With a sigh, Mycroft opened his eyes. Jimmy looked as though he hadn't slept in days._

_“Oh,” Jimmy whispered, a rare volume coming from him. “You’re awake.”_

_“Mmm. Looks that way.”_

_“How you doing?”_

_“I’m in agony.”_

_“I can get them to turn up the drugs,” he said, making to move. “No worries.”_

_Mycroft shook his head. “No. Sit. I’m fine for the minute. How long have I been asleep?”_

_Jimmy nodded and settled back in the chair. “A long while. I dunno. I’ve been too busy to keep track of time.” Jimmy shrugged a little. “We had a hell of a lot of paperwork to fill out.”_

_“How long was I gone for?”_

_“Three days. I’m so fucking sorry it took so long for us to get to you.”_

_“Don’t blame Toby,” Mycroft murmured. “There was nothing he could have done.”_

_“I can’t blame anyone else, Myc. He knew how dangerous going along that road was. We lost… we lost four people.”_

_“Lizzie?”_

_“Yeah. Shot. And then the three in the car. Myc. Oh Christ, I don’t want to ask this…”_

_“You want to know if I gave anything away.”_

_Jimmy looked down at his knees. “I don’t want to have to ask.”_

_“I didn’t tell them anything.”_

_Jimmy glanced at him. “Toby said there was evidence of waterboarding.”_

_“He’s correct.”_

_“You stuck it out?”_

_“Somehow,” Mycroft said with a small shrug. He regretted moving instantly, pain shooting through every muscle._

_“I’m getting the doctor,” Jimmy said, standing up. “Wait just a sec.”_

_“Jimmy-” Mycroft called out, but the man was already leaving the room. He groaned and closed his eyes. Minutes later, the doctor was returning, muttering to him and giving him water and painkillers. Jimmy stood by the wall, staring down at his feet. Mycroft waited until the doctor left before he spoke. “Don’t blame yourself,” he said. “You couldn’t do anything. You found me.”_

_“Nah. Toby found you. I just went in there and killed a few guys.”_

_Mycroft raised his eyebrow. “Did that make you feel better?”_

_“Yeah. Actually.” Jimmy sighed and returned to his seat. “What do you want me to do?”_

_Mycroft paused for a moment. He closed his eyes and gave him a half smile. “You should ask me out for dinner.”_

_Jimmy laughed, and the sound made Mycroft relax for the first time since he’d woken up. “Oh yeah?”_

_“Mmm.”_

_“Mycroft. Once you’re on your feet, will you go out for dinner with me?”_

_“No… I want you to bring us both some food here. And have dinner with me here.”_

_“Doctors won’t allow that.”_

_Mycroft smiled. “You’ll find a way,” he said softly._

_Jimmy laughed. Mycroft held his hand out to him. After a few moments passed, Jimmy took hold of his hand, rubbing his thumb against Mycroft’s knuckles._

_“I’m going to sleep,” Mycroft said softly. “Bring me dinner.”_

_“Your wish is my command,” Jimmy said, squeezing his hand._

_“Do I get one more wish?”_

_“Course you do. What is it?”_

_Mycroft opened his eyes, gazing at him. He wasn't going to take a risk of being killed and not feeling it at least once. “Kiss me.”_

_For a moment, Jimmy was taken aback, his eyes widening in shock. Then he leaned forward and brushed his lips against Mycroft’s. It was tender and soft. It was the opposite to how Mycroft thought he might kiss. It was wonderful. They smiled at each other and Mycroft closed his eyes. He fell asleep while Jimmy held his hand._

* * *

  **January 2006.**

**Location: Coeur de Lion Offices, Mayfair, London.**

As he walked into the office, he was sure everyone knew. He’d let his defences down and slept with someone. He was sure they could see right through him. He wasn’t so strong after all. He was just a man, acting on his desires. Weak and pathetic.

No one knew. Not really. Not even Anthea. He was being illogical.

He sat down at his desk, pushing papers around. His time with Greg had left him feeling as though everyone was watching him. As though they all knew.

He could still feel Greg’s lips on his skin, his light caresses and lingering touches. Wrong. All wrong. Because he had aimed to get Greg out of his system, out of sight, out of mind, not ingrained in his head on endless repeats.

He’d made a mistake - a terrible, unforgivable mistake.

He thought having him once would make the silent longing end, but it only enhanced it.

It shook him to the core. That he could be so weak. That he could even consider once again letting someone see him so defenceless. He could count the times he’d felt so afraid on one hand. He shook his head and tried to concentrate. But everything was spinning before his eyes. He slammed his hand down on the table.

It was as though Greg had got inside his head and torn his resolve apart. He had to concentrate on his work but all he saw was Greg Lestrade. The look in his eyes when he came, pupils blown. His groans and gasps. Mycroft willed himself to erase the memories, because he wanted more and couldn’t, shouldn’t, wouldn’t have it again.

Thinking of Greg made his chest hurt, and he felt utterly exposed and vulnerable.

Foolish. He was too damn foolish for words.

* * *

**February 2006.**

**Location: Whitehall, London.**

The prospect of a flu pandemic proved to be a welcome distraction. He sat in a meeting with the Prime Minister and the Secretary of State for Health reading through the Department for Health’s pandemic plan.

“The UK could experience up to 750,000 more deaths than usual over the course of a pandemic,” one of the Civil Service’s top statisticians informed them. “Local planners need to cope with the possibility of a mortality rate of up to 315,000 additional deaths. Maybe over a 15 week period.”

“Good God,” the Prime Minister muttered.

“We haven’t got any human cases of the H5N1 strain in the United Kingdom. But we are overdue a flu pandemic. So, let’s start with the postal service. Postal operators will ensure that the sector maintains priority delivery services and essential postal communication…”

Mycroft frowned and had a sip of his coffee. “Can we digress for a moment? While a flu pandemic in undoubtedly a concern, what happens if we have an outbreak of something worse?”

“Like what?” the Prime Minister asked.

“Smallpox?”

The Prime Minister laughed, pushing the plate of biscuits towards Mycroft. “No one’s getting smallpox.”

“Baskerville has a strain of smallpox in its laboratory. Accidents happen. It also has a fatality rate of 30 per cent. So caring about whether the postal service continues to run appears to be irrelevant in the case of a a smallpox outbreak. Ebola. Ebola is a possibility, surely?”

They all exchanged a look. “Look, Mycroft, we’re not going to have a smallpox outbreak.”

He ignored him. “How secure is Baskerville?” he asked.

The Prime Minister shrugged. “It’s got military security surrounding it. It’s fine, it’s all fine.”

“How do you know?”

“Well I just…” He glanced at the Health Secretary. “I mean, Baskerville’s secure, isn’t it?”

The Secretary shrugged. “I presume so.”

“When was the last time it was inspected?” Mycroft asked.

“No clue. I don’t know if anyone has. It just does its own thing.”

Mycroft raised his eyebrows at the Prime Minister, a nervous tension settling into the room.

The Prime Minister grinned. “Right that settles it then. Mycroft, your new job is inspecting Baskerville. Put a team together and check that it’s all safe.”

Mycroft nodded. “I need full clearance to every area.”

“You’ll get it.”

He nodded and rubbed his forehead, turning to the statistician. “My apologies. Please, continue.”

* * *

The corridors of the numerous Whitehall buildings were well worn and steeped in history. But unless you were looking for someone particular, you could remain anonymous, retreating to your office and hiding in there for days. Mycroft enjoyed that, locking himself in his room and focusing on his work for hours on end. 

Two days ago, Mycroft had been sent an envelope containing his access card for Baskerville. He was acquiring more responsibilities by the day.

His phone beeped.

Sherlock was hanging around in Hackney and Wood Green again, finding himself more drugs in all likelihood.

Mycroft slipped his phone into his pocket, letting out a soft sigh. Avoiding Greg Lestrade was only going to work for so long.


	12. Disease

**February 2006.**

**Location: Petty France, London.**

For Mycroft, keeping Sherlock under control was going to be more difficult once he’d launched his blog. The Science Of Deduction, he’d called it. And so now Sherlock was going to spread himself over the internet, boasting about his abilities and causing trouble.

Of course, it was the daily updates on his whereabouts which were proving the most concerning. Sherlock was spending time in a host of unsavoury locations, and the photographs all indicated he was living rough, or pretending to be. Searle Street. Onslow Street. All places Sherlock had bought drugs from in the past.

Mycroft didn’t believe he was clean. Greg had been right. Sherlock was an addict, and as an addict, he would never change. He may provide drug-free urine samples, but as far as Mycroft was concerned, that meant nothing. He had known about Sherlock’s drug-taking for long enough to know his brother was excellent at pretending to be clean.

Greg had already moved into the flat Mycroft had found for him. Mycroft had kept a close eye on his movements too. He had solved a case involving a number of bodies killed with rat poison, and Mycroft had received an update to inform him he had arrived home.

He knocked on the door. He wasn't going to be taken in by Greg's warm smile. He had an axe to grind. Greg opened the door with a relaxed expression, matching his work trousers with a tight fitting white t-shirt. He looked far more at ease than Mycroft had ever seen him. “Hey,” Greg said, frowning at him. "Come on in. I wasn't expecting you."

"Yes, I'm sorry to impose," Mycroft told him, walking into the flat. "But we need to talk about Sherlock. Urgently." Greg had already made himself at home with new furniture and a larger television. It was much better than his old flat. Greg wandered into the kitchen and Mycroft touched the back of the sofa as he heard the fridge open.

"Do you want a drink or food or anything?" Greg called out.

"This is not a social visit,” Mycroft replied. He waited in the living room, glancing around at his DVDs and books.

Greg walked out from the kitchen, beer in hand. "Then can’t we do this tomorrow?" he asked, taking a seat on one of the settees and stretching out along it.

"Oh yes,” Mycroft said, frowning at his relaxed posture. “You're celebrating. But no, I'm afraid not."

Mycroft took a seat on the opposite settee. They stared at each other. Mycroft could only imagine his firm chest, dark eyes, passionate kisses… Greg looked away first.

“Go on then,” Greg said. “What’s your brother done now?”

"It has come to my attention that Sherlock has been frequenting unsavoury parts of London where he is almost certainly coming into contact with heroin."

Greg nodded. "Yeah, I know."

Mycroft narrowed his eyes. "You know? Yet you continue to work with him?"

"He's clean. Molly tested him yesterday. And three days before that."

"I don't understand,” Mycroft frowned.

"He's undercover. He reckons he's found our rat run killer. Well, one of them. He's still hunting the second."

"Second?" Mycroft asked. He paused, considering what he knew of the case. Oh, there were bodies lying in the street, and then bodies placed strategically across London. They seemed similar, but they weren’t the same. A copycat killer. "Oh yes, I see."

"Do you?"

"Yes," Mycroft replied, frowning at him. "But you really must pull Sherlock out of there immediately."

"He's doing all right, Mycroft. He's reporting back to me every 12 hours, getting tested every three days. He lets me search his flat whenever I want. I even have a key."

"Alas, I fear where Sherlock is concerned things are never so simple,” Mycroft warned.

"Maybe you should have more faith in your brother?"

"You simply haven't known him as long as I, Detective Inspector."

Greg frowned and folded his arms. "So we're back to 'Detective Inspector' now?"

"This will not end well," Mycroft said, ignoring the question. "And I must urge you to put an end to this strategy immediately."

"Just trust me, alright? I'm keeping a close eye on him."

"I fear two close eyes are never enough."

Greg sighed. "Just give him - and me - the benefit of the doubt, okay? And if it all goes to shit then I'll bow down to your superiority in the future."

"I like to be kept informed, Inspector."

"I get that," Greg said. "But I'm looking after him."

Mycroft stood up, settling a long gaze on Greg.

"You sure I can't get you a drink?" Greg asked.

They had to end this. Mycroft wasn’t prepared to get bogged down in socialising with him again. "No,” he said. “I must return to work.” He felt his pulse speed up as Greg’s eyes skimmed over his body. "I expect to be kept informed.”

"See you, Mycroft,” Greg said, frowning at him.

Mycroft nodded, turning and walking out. He tightened his hold on his umbrella handle. Over. It wasn’t happening again.

* * *

Mycroft kept a closer eye on Sherlock’s activities between spending time at Whitehall, the Diogenes and his Mayfair office. There had been easier times once, and unfortunately those times all came before Sherlock was seven-years-old. Or perhaps even earlier than that, before he was old enough to walk and talk.

The newspapers were full of politics and crimes and celebrity gossip. But one headline caught Mycroft’s attention.

He paused over an article describing how a new specimen of archaeopteryx had been discovered. An important fossil, the first one had effectively proved evolution when it was discovered. And this one, uncovered in Bavaria, proved it lacked a reverse toe. It meant it probably had a tree-climbing lifestyle, despite it being so bird-like.

It made Mycroft nostalgic, remembering a time where he hadn't had to worry about Sherlock. 

* * *

**March 1979.**

**Location: The Natural History Museum, London.**

_Mycroft, then aged eight, stopped dead in his tracks as they walked through the big wooden doors. There it was. His father had spoken about it, but he hadn’t imagined it would be like this. With wide eyes, he walked along the marble floor, past the tourists, until he reached it._

_His father stepped beside him, resting a hand on his shoulder. “Do you know what it is, Mycroft?” he asked._

_“It’s a diplodocus,” he murmured, staring up at it. It was so much bigger than he ever imagined. It had an extraordinarily long neck. He began to walk around him, mouth open, staring up at it. His father stood with a smile on his face, just watching._

_No number of books or old films had prepared him for seeing how a dinosaur looked up close, even if it was just a replica. For seeing the intricacies of its bones, the curve of its spine._

_“Mycroft,” his father called out to him. “Did you know this dinosaur has a name?”_

_Mycroft frowned, padding over to him. “Why? He’s a diplodocus.”_

_“They call him Dippy.”_

_Mycroft shrugged. “He’s a diplodocus,” he said. He didn't have a name. He stepped as close to the glass surround as he could, beginning to count its bones._

_“Mycroft-”_

_“-Not yet,” he said, as he began to walk around him, stopping to count the bones in its tail. He was mesmerised. The diplodocus was 150million years old. He couldn’t comprehend it. He sat down cross-legged on the floor. After a while, when he’d finally counted its tail (70 bones) he nodded to his father._

_His father laughed and began to walk to the first exhibition room. And they spent over an hour in there, cataloguing every set of dinosaur bones, marvelling at their size. The horns. Armour._

_And then they found themselves stood by the wall of fossilised marine reptiles. Many of them were ichthyosaurs and plesiosaurs. And all Mycroft could do was sit down on the wooden floor in front of them, gazing up at them. With a laugh, his father sat down on a bench along the opposite wall, opening up his briefcase and taking out his newspaper._

_Dinosaurs were different to everything else Mycroft had ever learnt about. There was maths, where everything was fixed and concrete. Literature with its interpretations. History, politics, philosophy… they were all very well, but they weren’t tangible._

_But these were creatures which walked the earth, and unlike maths and history, literature, politics and philosophy, he could make sense of it all. It was a simple time. There was the earth, the air, water and the reptiles. No people. No confusing, layered conversations. No jokes with double meanings. Just dinosaur versus dinosaur, fighting to survive._

_He glanced around as a woman in a pair of jeans and a white shirt stopped and spoke to his father. Moments later, she sat down on the floor beside Mycroft._

_“You like these?” she asked._

_Mycroft nodded. “I like the ichthyosaurs.”_

_She laughed. “I like the plesiosaur myself. It’s up to 187million years old.”_

_He looked at her. “Do you work here?”_

_“Yes, I carry out research. I’m a paleontologist. I don’t specialise in these though. I work in paleoecology. That’s examining the interactions between different creatures. Like in food chains.”_

_Mycroft nodded. “The plesiosaur would eat the ichthyosaur if it could.”_

_The woman laughed, leaning back on her elbows. “You’re right,” she said. “The ichthyosaur was the top dog of the seas for millions of years. Then came along the plesiosaur.”_

_“When it had evolved.”_

_The woman glanced at him and then laughed. “Yes, it evolved. They teach evolution in school already?”_

_“I read a lot,” Mycroft said. “Why do you think paleontology is important?”_

_“Well, that is a tough question. First, it teaches us about the earth. About the life it was able to sustain. It’s helped us accept the theory of evolution. Some people don’t think it matters. That it’s ancient history and that the creatures aren’t alive now, so it’s not important. But knowledge matters, whether it changes the world or not. Learning things is important, and you never know where a new discovery could take you. Science isn’t… linear. Do you understand what I mean by that?”_

_Mycroft shook his head._

_“I mean that by studying paleontology, we learn new ways of doing engineering or geology and new biochemistry techniques. And advances in those fields enable us to learn more about paleontology too. Everything is linked.”_

_Mycroft paused for a moment. For the first time in his life, he could visualise it. The different subjects he learnt at home under the tutelage of his mother. And in his head, he saw the ways every subject complemented the other, how seemingly useless knowledge in one area could be vital in another. For the first time in his life, the thoughts weren’t so disparate and overwhelming. They didn’t feel like a card index dropped on the floor, confusing and chaotic. They felt as though they slotted together. Like a map. A map of knowledge spread out before his eyes._

_The woman smiled and stood up. “Enjoy the rest of your visit,” she said. As she walked away, Mycroft turned around to his father, who was still engrossed in the newspaper._

_“Father?” he said._

_He looked up. “Yes?”_

_“We can go to the next exhibit now.”_

_His father looked at his watch. “The museum closes in two hours. I don’t think we have enough time to see it all if we carry on at this pace.”_

_Mycroft just smiled. “Then we’ll come back tomorrow,” he said._

_His father laughed and stood up, putting his newspaper away. “Fine. Come on then. Let’s see what’s through this door here.”_

* * *

**March 2006.**

**Location: Crusader House, Pall Mall, London.**

Mycroft frowned as his phone went off. It was his day off, and he had demanded no one contact him except in an emergency. It was Anthea. “Yes?” he asked, half-way through pouring himself a coffee.

“It’s Sherlock,” she said. “He’s been spotted at Onslow Street again. I think he’s in a bad way.”

Mycroft sighed, placing the cafetiere down on the side. “How bad?” he asked.

“He’s just… crouched down by a wall at the moment. A car’s on its way to take you there immediately.”

“Who’s driving?”

“It’s Jim.”

“It was his day off,” he said with a frown.

“Yes, but I know you don’t like the others to interact with Sherlock. He’s happy to do it. Apparently he was shopping.”

Mycroft nodded. “Thank you, Anthea,” he said before hanging up. He went into his bedroom, taking care over putting a tie and waistcoat on. He picked up his coat on the way out. The car was already outside and he slid into the back seat. “Thank you, Jim,” he said.

“No worries, boss.”

Jim pulled out of the space and Mycroft gazed out of the window. They drove up and down the roads near Onslow Street several times until they found him, slumped underneath a bridge, a cigarette in one hand, though it appeared he hadn’t taken more than one drag.

“D’you want me to help, sir?” Jim asked as Mycroft got out.

Mycroft nodded. They both approached Sherlock together. He flashed Mycroft a disgusted look but he didn’t say a word. Jim wrapped his arm under Sherlock’s, yanking him up to a standing position.

“Go away,” Sherlock muttered, dropping the cigarette onto the ground.

Mycroft stamped it out. “And leave you in this state? I’m surprised you haven’t been mugged already.”

“I am not going with you.”

Mycroft frowned. “Do you honestly think I want to be anywhere near you right now? You can go back to your own flat.”

Sherlock squirmed, trying to wriggle out of Jim’s grip, but Jim held him tightly. “Nah, you don’t lad,” he said, practically dragging him to the car. Mycroft watched as Jim pushed him into the back of the car, handing him a bottle of water. “Drink that up and stop being such an arse.” Jim slammed the back door closed, locking it up.

Mycroft rolled his eyes and got into the passenger seat. He and Jim stayed quiet on the way to Southwark, Mycroft gazing out of the window and trying to ignore Sherlock’s ranting in the back. He watched as Sherlock injected himself in the arm, quietening down again.

He stayed quiet as Jim led Sherlock to his flat, pushing him into his bedroom. He took the syringe away and left. Mycroft opened Sherlock’s drawers one at a time, disposing drugs and other substances into a shopping bag Jim held open to him. Sherlock stared up at the ceiling with glazed eyes. “I wish you’d leave me alone,” he muttered. “Isn’t screwing up the country enough for you?”

Mycroft stayed quiet as he walked out, satisfied he had everything he needed to find from Sherlock’s bedroom. He checked the kitchen, the bathroom and living room. He nodded to Jim. “I can take those if you’d prefer,” he said, glancing down at the bag full of drug items.

Jim shrugged and shook his head. “Don’t worry about it. I got it.”

“And why is it that you’re able to resist your addiction and Sherlock… just can’t?”

“He doesn’t want to,” Jim said. “He finds it better. He needs something else to do to distract him, I think.”

“I’d have hoped he’d have plenty.” Mycroft sighed. “Go home,” he said. “Get rid of all of that. And take Monday off.”

Jim nodded. “Cheers, sir. If y’need anything, shout. He needs a stay hydrated.”

“I’ve got it. Thank you.”

Jim left with the bag, leaving Mycroft to tidy the living room a little bit, back to how it was before he’d searched the place. He stood by the window, leaning on his umbrella a little. His right knee was aching. He didn’t often notice it, but it had flared up in the past few days.

He frowned as the door opened as watched in the window’s reflection as Greg walked into the flat, glancing around. He had a bottle of champagne in one hand. He and Sherlock had solved their case then, but at Sherlock’s expense. It struck Mycroft just how little Greg understood. He had no reason to, not really. He hadn’t seen Sherlock at his worse, of course. But he only saw the best in people, and that meant he simply could not understand Sherlock at all.

“Where’s Sherlock?” Greg asked.

“In bed,” Mycroft replied, not turning to face him. “I’m afraid he has been taking heroin.”

He watched as Greg slumped down onto the sofa. He wasn’t surprised. Oh no. No, he knew Sherlock was back on the sauce. And he hadn’t seen fit to tell Mycroft about it. Mycroft frowned, turning around, staring down at him.

“It was stupid,” Greg muttered, not meeting his eyes. “I wasn’t thinking.”

“That much is obvious,” Mycroft replied. “But it’s done now and we will of course need to consider getting him to a rehabilitation facility.”

Greg looked up at him. “We?”

“Oh yes.” Mycroft turned back to the window. “I am not cleaning your mess up by myself. And Sherlock is far more likely to respond to you than me. You be the carrot and and I will be the stick in his recovery.”

“He was doing so well.”

“On the contrary. I imagine he has been using for much of the past year. He has just become an expert in hiding it.”

“No. We’ve been testing his urine for months…”

“And you believe Sherlock would not find another way to submit samples?” Mycroft asked sharply. His knee twinged and he leaned on his umbrella. “Even the dreadful cough he had in September could have been a symptom of drug use. I can’t believe I missed it.”

“I missed it too,” Greg murmured. “So what’s the plan?”

“Sherlock will be going through withdrawal. I’m afraid I have a trip tomorrow. I would request you stay with him. After which time we will wait and see. You will offer him cold cases if he is clean in two weeks time. I will offer him rehab if he is not. Carrot. And stick. We are more likely to be successful if we do so together. He likes and trusts you, and he does not like or trust me. But you are clearly too easy on him.”

“He seemed to be sorting it.”

“You haven’t seen him at his very worst. I suppose I know better than to believe he can completely shake off these ridiculous impulses of his.”

“What happened before?” Greg asked.

Mycroft turned back to the window. He didn’t know how much to say. He’d never had to talk about it before. No one else had ever asked. Why would anyone else have cared? But he supposed Greg deserved some sort of explanation, especially since he was willing to give Sherlock so much time. “I was 25 when I was given a job offer I simply could not refuse. It was in the United States. Sherlock was just about to begin university, and it seemed an appropriate time to take the offer. I was there for two years. A most unfortunate incident occurred while I was there, and it blinded me to Sherlock’s problems. When I finally realised, he was in hospital.”

Greg bit his lip. “I’m sorry.”

“It was a wonder he ever completed his exams,” Mycroft said. “Three years later, he almost died. It was then I decided to pay closer attention to my brother’s affairs.” Mycroft looked at Greg. “You understand, of course, that I do not blame you?”

Greg frowned. “Don’t you? ‘Cause I do.”

“No. This is nothing new. It was to be expected. The nature of the case you were working on did not help.”

Greg rubbed his face. “Shit, Mycroft-”

“Please don’t apologise. I do not for a second believe you wanted this to happen. You did all you could. Now you just have to do more.”

“I’m still sorry-”

“Oh will you both just shut up!” Sherlock shouted from his room.

Mycroft sighed. “I have to go,” he said. “If you need anything, my assistant will be on hand to answer my phone.”

With one final glance to Sherlock’s room he gave Greg the password to his brother’s laptop before leaving. His driver, Malcolm, had arrived with the car and he left for home once again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just FYI... I wrote this chapter weeks and weeks ago, before the Natural History Museum Dippy announcement... weird coincidence...


	13. Coalition

**March 2006.**

**Location: Minsk, Belarus.**

The streets were lined with protesters, demanding a re-count. For all intents and purposes, it appeared as though the election had been rigged. After three days of negotiations and pleading with the Belorussian President for a clean and legal vote count, it hadn’t happened. Mycroft and the US Secretary of State had been working with the Organisation for Security and Cooperation in Europe, but they had known they were onto a losing battle within the first hour of meetings.

“There was nothing we could have done,” Mycroft murmured to the Secretary as they gazed out of one of the windows in the Parliament building. “I don’t think we had anything else to offer.”

“They’re taking their lives into their hands down there.”

Mycroft stared down into the streets, where people waved their flags and booed the images of the President. “He’s smart enough not to attempt a Tienanmen Square incident. Not while the world’s media are here, anyway.”

“And the media will be bored of this story within a day.”

Mycroft nodded. “And the country’s own media is controlled by the Government.” He sighed, turning and sitting down at the table they had been using for meetings. He flicked through the list of offers the UK and US Governments had been willing to make before tearing them up and throwing them into the bin. He looked up at the Secretary. “Do you ever win this kind of negotiation?” he asked.

The man laughed, shrugging. “Nope.”

“I was worried you might say that.”

“How long you been doing this job?”

“Not long. In all honesty, I don’t know what my job is. The Prime Minister puts me where he wants me.”

The Secretary laughed, shutting the curtains. He checked his watch. “Suppose I should be heading to the airport. Not sure how the car’s going to get through that mob though.”

“No, I don’t either.”

“Want a drink?”

Mycroft nodded. “Yes, why not? We may as well commiserate.”

The Secretary laughed, walking over to the trolley and pouring them each a brandy. He took a seat and they clinked their glasses together before drinking. They sat in silence as they listened to the chanting outside.

“I’ve been involved in politics for a long time,” the Secretary said after a while. “And there are three things that bother me about the world as it stands. The first is nuclear weapons. The second is that there are so many dictators out there. And the third is that we don’t even know who are our friends are anymore.”

Mycroft frowned. “Friends? What happened to the ‘special relationship’ between the UK and USA?”

“It’s exists. In a form. But not for long, not when your Prime Minister goes. And your European Union is getting stronger, and the vast majority of that isn’t our friend.”

Mycroft nodded. “I think what concerns me most of all is the dictators with the nuclear weapons.”

“And the terrorists. And worse than that, I’m beginning to think we don’t know what we can do to make it better. War doesn’t work. Sanctions don’t work. Negotiations with North Korea have pretty much become a show and a farce. We sit round a table for two minutes and then someone gets angry.”

Mycroft nodded. “I’ve avoided dealings with North Korea thus far. I expect that will all begin soon.”

“No one protests anymore.”

“They are protesting here.”

“Yeah, and if the police treat them like terrorists, then they’ll all get the death penalty.”

Mycroft frowned and sipped his drink. “And what do we do?” he asked. “Sit in the Parliament building and drink our brandy. We go back to our respective countries and say we tried and that we condemn their actions.”

“We’re just playing a gigantic game of Risk.”

“And how does it feel when you’re one of the most important men in the world?” Mycroft asked.

The Secretary shook his head. “Like I’m standing on a landmine.”

Mycroft paused for a second. “Yes,” he agreed softly. “Yes, that is how it feels.”

They sat back in their chairs, just listening to the chanting as they sipped their drinks. “I’m going to see if I can get a flight.” The Secretary stood up and they shook hands. “I suspect we’ll be seeing a bit more of each other.”

Mycroft nodded. “I imagine so. Have a good trip.”

“And you.”

Mycroft waited until he left before walking back to the window and watching the scenes down below. How long would it take, he wondered, until the world were really free? And as he stood and watched the people fight and chant for their freedom and true democracy, he was struck by the thought that he was taking part in a losing game.

There was no winning. No victory. Only constant battles and endless conversations that never went anywhere.

And he couldn’t even protect Sherlock from himself. How on earth was he ever going to be able to protect the United Kingdom?

With a tightness in his chest, he left the room and walked down the corridors, pacing until he was finally able to get a car to take him to the airport.

* * *

**February 2000.**

**Location: The Priory, London.**

_Mycroft marched out of the lounge area, walking through to the garden. He pulled his coat more tightly around himself, squeezing his eyes shut for a few seconds._

_Sherlock was driving the staff at the rehabilitation centre around the bend. And if it weren’t for Mycroft’s demands to the manager, he would have checked himself out by now. It had only been three days._

_He’d screamed at Mycroft when he arrived. And not being willing to rise to it, he thought a few moments in the garden apart would improve things._

_He looked up at the sound of footsteps. A tall man with a scarred cheek was walking down the garden path towards him. They eyed each for a second before the man fished cigarette packet out of his pocket and held it out._

_“Look like you could use one,” the man said with a crooked smile._

_Mycroft nodded, taking the box from him. “Thank you.” He fished one out and passed the box back over, exchanging it for a lighter. The man stood beside him, shoulders squared. He stood like a soldier standing to attention, and that was exactly what Mycroft suspected he used to be._

_He lit the cigarette and took a deep inhale. He sighed, watching the smoke in the air._

_“You here to see someone?” the man asked._

_“Yes. And you?”_

_“Nah, I’m a patient.” Mycroft glanced at him, surprised. The man shrugged and lit his own cigarette. “I’ll be out tomorrow,” he said. “Who are you here to see?”_

_“Sherlock Holmes.”_

_“Oh. Yeah, he’s been shakin’ the place up a bit.”_

_Mycroft nodded. “So I understand.”_

_“He just doesn’t want to be clean, that’s his problem. And he knows exactly what he’s doing to himself, he’s just not willing to change.”_

_“And were you?” Mycroft asked. “Willing to change?”_

_The man nodded. “I fucked up after I left the army. But yeah, I’m going to leave here and get a job. Or try to anyway.”_

_“What did you do in the army?”_

_“I started off driving vehicles. Got up to a Major rank. Then I got injured.”_

_“What happened?”_

_“Lost my leg to an IED.”_

_Mycroft nodded, frowning. He needed a driver. A good one. And one with an ability to use a gun was even better. Clearly the man had hit rock bottom with some sort of addiction. Mycroft knew how it worked too, when you gave someone at rock bottom an opportunity. They felt as though they owed you, and they would demonstrate that through unending loyalty and commitment._

_Intrigued by the man, Mycroft reached into his pocket, retrieving a business card. “I’m looking for a driver,” he said, handing it over. “Give me a call tomorrow and I can explain what it is I do and we can see if we can come to an arrangement.”_

_The man nodded. “Alright. Thanks. I’m Jim, by the way. Jim Braum.”_

_“Mycroft Holmes.” Mycroft stamped out his cigarette and turned and walked back through the building. Sherlock had already locked himself in his room. Mycroft chose to leave him to it._

* * *

**March 2006.**

**Location: Whitehall, London.**

The Prime Minister’s bid for identity cards failed. While the Prime Minister paced angrily, Mycroft couldn’t agree with him on the bill. They debated it for an hour, until they each had to leave for a meeting.

In the evening, Greg called. Mycroft took the phone call out in the hallway. “Yes?” he asked.

“Hi. Look, just a heads up. Have you heard about Andrew Hanley?”

“Yes, the child who went missing?”

“That’s the one. Well anyway, I’m heading up the case and there’s no way I’ve got time to keep a proper eye on Sherlock. I’m just letting you know in case anything happens.”

“It’s fine,” Mycroft said. “Don’t worry. Concentrate on the case and I’ll monitor Sherlock as best I can.”

“Are you sure?” Greg asked.

“I would say if I wasn’t. Good luck.”

“Cheers.”

Mycroft hung up and sent Anthea a message to keep a closer eye on his brother. He sat back down in his office, staring at the wall rather than doing anything of use. It was late. He thought he should probably go home. He tapped his fingers against his desk. He opened his top drawer, took out a chocolate bar, paused and put it back in again.

He stood up. Opened the curtains and stared out at the streetlights. He closed the curtains. He took a deep breath. He couldn’t concentrate. He was… overwhelmed. There was too much going on at once.

He looked up at the knock on the door and called for the person to come in. Jim Braum walked in. “Sorry to interrupt,” he said. “But I’m starving. I was thinking of heading down to the café and picking up a coffee. Do you want one?”

Mycroft checked the time and frowned. “No. I might go home.”

“Sure, alright.”

Mycroft wandered round to the coat stand to take his coat off. “I was thinking about Sherlock,” he said. “Wondering what I could possibly offer him to make him stop.”

Jim shrugged, holding the door open to him as they walked out. “I dunno.”

“What made you go to rehabilitation?”

“You don’t want to know.”

“Why not?” Mycroft asked.

“Because it ain’t pretty. Because you’re my boss, and I don’t think it’s a story you really need to hear.”

“Have I ever given you the impression I judge you on your life choices?”

Jim laughed. “No,” he said. “No, and you’re right that not many people would have hired me if they’d known my whole story. I went to prison.”

“I know that. For an assault.”

“Yeah.”

“Was that the turning point?”

Jim paused. “No,” he admitted, leading them towards the car park.

“You don’t have to say anything,” Mycroft murmured. “It’s fine.”

“Nah. I know I don’t have to. But I will, because helping Sherlock is important. So. So I was with this girl. She was a pretty thing, mid-20s. Obviously too young for me but she had a good sense of humour and. Well, she was addicted to drugs. I woke up after a night of binging to find her dead.”

Mycroft nodded, not sure what to say. “I see,” was all he managed.

“So I checked myself in to get help,” Jim said with a small smile.

Jim opened the back door of the car for him and Mycroft slid in, staring out of the window. His head didn’t feel any clearer even as he got into bed, staring up at the ceiling.

Greg Lestrade gave Sherlock cases, and that wasn’t enough. But Mycroft had more than cases. He was sure he could pick up something fascinating from MI5’s current investigations, something which would keep him occupied for a while. But he was sure Greg’s cases should have been enough…

And then he resented his own mind. Because he was thinking about Greg again. With a groan, he rolled over onto his stomach and buried his face into the pillow.

* * *

A few evenings later, Mycroft went to Sherlock’s flat. He picked the lock and let himself in. He stepped over the mess, the clothes and the dirty plates as he made his way to his brother’s room. Sherlock was lying on his bed, smoking.

Mycroft coughed as he stepped in, pulling a face. “What a waste of your mind,” he muttered, frowning at the syringe on the bedside cabinet. “Had a nice binge, have you?”

Sherlock grunted, turning his head and looking at Mycroft. He frowned at the sight of the the folder underneath Mycroft’s arm. “What did you bring me?” he asked.

“A case,” Mycroft told him. “Something I thought you may be able to help with.” Sherlock reached out, trying to grab it, but Mycroft took a step back from the bed. “No.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “What do you want?”

“I want you to get out of this hovel. And to get clean.”

“Go away.”

“Sherlock Holmes!” Mycroft snapped. “Get out of that bed this instant.”

“Why? What are you going to do?”

Mycroft crossed his arms, staring down at him. “I will tell our parents.”

They stared at each other, pointed gazes fixes. Until finally Sherlock groaned, sitting up. “Get out of my room,” he said.

“You’re staying with me,” Mycroft said. “Until we work out what to do with you.”

Sherlock pulled back the covers, standing up on shaking legs.

“Oh for goodness sake,” Mycroft muttered. “When was the last time you ate?” He shook his head and walked out to the living room, waiting for Sherlock to get dressed. He’d convinced Sherlock to leave his flat, but he hadn’t worked out his next move.

His goal, of course, was to get Sherlock drug-free. But he also wanted to encourage him to work with Greg and for Greg to give him the Kirkcudbright case. Perhaps, he thought, if he could get them all into a room together then he’d be able to achieve all of those things. Greg’s need to help and protect was greater than his pride. Mycroft was sure he’d give Sherlock the Kirkcudbright case eventually.

He stood by the window, calling Greg as he waited. It went to voicemail. It was unusual, but Mycroft slipped his phone into his pocket, not giving it any further thought.

They didn’t talk in the car. Sherlock huddled himself up in the corner, pointedly staring out of the window. And when they arrived at Crusader House, he locked himself in the spare bedroom and made a point of not eating the dinner Mycroft made for him.

Mycroft tried calling Greg again, but it only returned to voicemail. He frowned, reading up on the news of the Andrew Hanley case. Before he went to bed, he left Greg a quick message to invite him to the flat in the morning.

It was two hours before Greg replied to say it was fine.

By the time morning came, Sherlock had sprawled out on the sofa, drinking a tea and staring up at the ceiling. He’d been using again. It seemed he had no consideration for being in Mycroft’s home and was content to be a pain in the backside for the rest of his life.

Mycroft sat down in his chair beside the fire, just watching and waiting. They ignored each other, both remaining in their own heads. Encouraging Greg round would hopefully lead to him giving Sherlock the Kirkcudbright case at the very least. To Mycroft’s mind, ancouraging their working relationship was important and necessary - to Sherlock’s health and Mycroft’s work.

He wasn’t going to allow for Sherlock to end up in a rehabilitation clinic under similar circumstances to Jim - when there was nothing left at all.

He looked up as the front door opened and Greg walked in, a curious expression on his face. Mycroft felt his own pulse speed up a little and the flutters in his stomach. He felt it along with a nauseating resentment and twinges of regret, and he wished more than any other wish that he could erase the myriad of emotions. It was too much - far too much - and all at once.

Greg grinned at him and frowned at Sherlock and seemed to let out a small shrug which suggested he felt both resigned to his fate and yet not displeased about it.

“Would you like a cup of coffee?” Mycroft asked him, already getting up out of his chair.

“Er, yeah, sure,” Greg agreed.

Mycroft went into the kitchen. He turned the kettle on, measuring out the granules into the cafetiere.

He carried the drinks out and passed one to Greg. “So. What am I doing here?” Greg asked, glancing between them both.

Mycroft took his seat again, glancing down at his tea before nodding his head towards Sherlock. “We’re here to discuss what to do about Sherlock.”

“Do I even need to be here for this?” Sherlock asked from under the covers. “Why can’t the two of you just leave me alone?”

“Because the two of us happen to care about your well-being, however distasteful you find the idea.” Mycroft sipped his coffee. “Now, Sherlock, we made the case perfectly clear to you that if you could not keep off the heroin for two weeks we would send you to rehab. I was hoping we could have a discussion and avoid that.”

“I hate you both,” Sherlock said.

“And I despise you when you’re high,” Mycroft replied bitterly.

Silence reigned. Greg glanced between them both, as though caught in the middle of a fight for territory. Mycroft continued to stare at Sherlock, trying to force him down from his pedestal and fold to his will.

And finally, Sherlock did speak. “You both disgust me,” he said. “Just send me to rehab. I know you’d prefer it if I’m away, it gives you more time to do nasty things with Lestrade.”

“I do not wish to send you to rehab if I don’t have to,” Mycroft replied, ignoring his comment about sex with Greg. God. He should never think about sex with Greg again. “I don’t expect it will be particularly beneficial. But if you give me no other choice then I will send you.”

“You can’t make me do anything, Mycroft.”

“Do not presume anything about what I can and cannot do, brother mine.”

“I’ll give you the Kirkcudbright case,” Greg finally said. Mycroft almost smiled. “If you get clean. Properly clean. You can have all the cases you want.”

“I don’t care about your cases,” Sherlock retorted, and at that moment he reminded Mycroft very much of when his brother was six-years-old.

“Yes you do,” Greg said. “Don’t bother lying, Sherlock, I’ve known you a year now and I know you need to keep your mind active. What was it you called yourself? A consulting detective? Well, if you want to do that then here’s your chance. If you’re drug-free. It’s an interesting case, the Kirkcudbright one, Sherlock. You said you read about it in the papers but you don’t know the half of it. The security system missing only three minutes of tape. All of the staff accounted for, no one seen arriving or leaving the premises. Three minutes in which Hadrian Kirkcudbright was slashed in the throat.”

“He has a lot of enemies,” he murmured.

“Loads,” Greg agreed. “Pretty nasty way to kill someone. Big case, Sherlock. He was a powerful man. And it’s a very tricky case. I wish I had the brains to figure it out, but we got it wrong before.”

Mycroft smiled faintly, observing them both. For the first time, he’d successfully manipulated them both into doing what he wanted. Sherlock would go to rehab and then he’d get the case. And without Mycroft having to force him in there and throw away the key. Pressuring Sherlock into going to rehab was only going to pull them further apart - if that were possible.

“What do I need to do?” Sherlock finally asked.

“Go to rehab,” Greg said. “Your brother doesn’t want you to go. He thinks you’ll just resent us both. But I don’t think either of us are going to be able to give you the time you need to get clean. I know it’ll drive you mad. I know you’re going to hate every bloody second of it. But for every two days you’re there, I will send you a cold case. And in two weeks time, I will give you everything you need for the Kirkcudbright case.”

Sherlock gave in, slumping against the sofa. Mycroft kept his expression tight, masking his exuberance. He stood up. “I will make the arrangements,” he said and wandered into his office.

Sherlock didn’t speak to him while they waited for the car. He stubbornly refused to move from the sofa and ended up slinking off still dressed in his dressing gown, as though the sight of him walking through the building that way would bring Mycroft some sort of shame.

For the next few days, Mycroft relaxed. But he was getting reports from the centre that Sherlock’s behaviour was problematic and even when they’d managed to get him through withdrawal, he’d somehow managed to get hold of some extra medication to get high with instead. They were wrestling with his temper and his boredom, and if Mycroft didn’t find a way to make him settle, they were considering whether they’d have to get the police involved for criminal damage.

So Mycroft called Greg, asking for him to bring some cold cases round. He felt apprehensive when he got out of bed at the usual time, enjoying a shower and dressing. He and Greg being alone in his home again came with an accompanying feeling of dread. A man who, in one way or another, he simply couldn’t stop thinking about.

Mycroft was enjoying some breakfast on the sofa when Greg came in. Greg put the files down on the table, his cheeks flushing just a little as he looked at him. The obvious attraction in Greg’s eyes, the very thing which had made Mycroft consider him in a sexual way at all, just reaffirmed his belief that they really had to stop spending time together. He couldn’t take the risk.

“There’s six there,” Greg said, nodding towards the pile of cases. “I think the top one is the hardest, it’s probably worth sending that one to him first. How is he?” Greg sat down on the other side of the sofa.

“Driving the staff around the bend. Hardly surprising.”

“I’d expect nothing else.”

Mycroft smiled. “It is a small weight off my mind. I am very grateful, Greg.”

“Should I feel manipulated?” Greg asked. He winced. “Sorry, I don’t-”

“Sherlock told you I found you the flat so I could keep an eye on you,” Mycroft murmured. “I can assure you, that is not the case. Certainly when I invited you here, my aim was for Sherlock to go into rehabilitation. And yes, I was hoping you would react the way you did. But it was never my intention to manipulate you.”

“I’m sorry I asked.

“Please don’t be,” Mycroft said. “You have no reason to believe otherwise. As I may have mentioned in the past, much of our business could easily be conducted on the phone. I could have sent a… how did you describe them? An underling? I could have sent an ‘underling’ to your office to pick up these files.” He took a soft breath, his chest clenching uncomfortably. “But I enjoy your company.”

Greg was eyeing him with interest, those words apparently appearing to swirl in both of their minds. Greg glanced down at Mycroft’s arms and then back to his eyes, his pupils dilating. “Cheers,” Greg said with a smile, though his voice sounded tighter than usual. “Right,” he said as he stood up. “I’ve gotta get back to work. Sherlock’s going to be alright.”

Mycroft smiled and stood up too, and his heart was pounding. No, he shouldn’t want this, not at all, not one iota. But he wished Greg would kiss him. He wished Greg would grab him and drag him to his bedroom and then let Mycroft taste and touch him all over…

And Greg touched Mycroft’s arm, in a gesture Mycroft was only imagine was supposed to be soothing. It was anything but. His body reacted to it immediately, his pulse racing, skin feeling warm and more sensitive than ever. He looked down at Greg’s hand. His fingers were shorter than Mycroft’s, but he looked after his nails. The line where his wedding ring had sat for 16 years was gone now. As though she had never existed. He looked back up at Greg, raising a single eyebrow.

What now? He wasn’t going to make the first move but he could only hope Greg was going to do it and not walk away.

Greg’s hand brushed along Mycroft’s arm and up to his shoulder. His hand cupped the side of his neck, his fingers cool against Mycroft’s hot skin. It was such a protective gesture, sensual and lingering. Mycroft leaned into the touch.

Greg licked his lips, and it made Mycroft’s breath catch. His dark eyes were drawing him in. He was… enchanting. Striking and handsome. He stepped closer, and every second felt like minutes.

And then Greg’s lips brushed against his. Mycroft closed his eyes, not daring to move as their lips touched, so, so lightly. It was a sweet kiss, so tender and full of caution.

Mycroft responded in kind, not pushing but just letting the seconds run by with their mouths touching. Mycroft lifted his hand, touching Greg’s chest and feeling his heartbeat. He curled his fingers in the fabric, holding him closer. They each had work. He wished they had more time.

And Greg was kissing him so slowly. It wasn’t exploring, it was sensual and erotic.

Greg turned his head, kissing the corner of Mycroft’s mouth. “I’ve got to get to work,” Greg whispered, his tone reluctant. He moved his hand from Mycroft’s neck and onto his jaw, caressing Mycroft’s bottom lip with this thumb. Mycroft swallowed, gazing at him. “Hold that thought,” Greg whispered with a closed-mouth smile. He turned and walked for the door, leaving Mycroft standing dumbly in the centre of his living room, aroused and with a sense of loss.

“When will I see you?” Mycroft asked, kicking himself for how desperate he sounded.

Greg stopped. He looked over his shoulder, and their eyes met, deep, hot longing between them. “Whenever you want,” he said.

“This evening?”

Greg smiled. “See you then.” He turned the handle and walked out, closing the door behind him. Mycroft let out a long breath, reaching up to touch his lips with his fingers. 


	14. Control

**March 2006.**

**Location: Crusader House, Pall Mall, London.**

He’d lost control.

That was what had happened. And it was the worst possible mistake.

He’d been swept up by hormones and arousal. He’d followed the calling of his body and not his head when he'd been kissed by Greg and melted in an instant. That was an error.

And of course, Greg was going to return to Crusader House that evening, and Mycroft was almost certain he wouldn’t be able to say no to him. He didn’t want to either.

But he did have to wrestle his control back. In all of his sexual encounters, with perhaps a few exceptions, he had always needed to be in charge. To set the pace. To lead the way. And he had a feeling Greg was happy to be led.

He’d seen that before, on that night on the sofa. That once Mycroft had pushed him down onto the settee, Greg had been more than happy to let Mycroft take charge.

And so, when he saw Greg that night, he promised himself that he would lead the way again. Greg was coming over for one thing - to continue where they left off that morning. It was purely sexual. They were simply two people who had nothing apart from their work and a mutual concern for Sherlock’s wellbeing. Neither of them took the pursuit of sexual intercourse lightly. Neither of them threw themselves into friendships and relationships without a degree of hesitance. They had a mutual regard for one another. They understood each other intellectually, and they understood each other sexually.

They’d meet, they’d kiss, they’d satisfy each other and leave.

Mycroft had been in a few sexual relationships in his life, and he knew how to build the boundaries and how to avoid stepping over them. And at the end of it all, Greg was a good enough man that he would accept when it was over. He would accept it was sex, and only sex. And they would say their farewells, and Greg would find a new partner.

That was fine. That was perfect, and just how it should be.

But for all of that certainty, Mycroft still showered when he got home. He sprayed on his best aftershave and wore a freshly-pressed suit, matching it with a red tie and pocket handkerchief. It was his armour. No one argued with him when he dressed like this. It enabled him to maintain a feeling of distance. He could treat their encounter in practical terms rather than getting carried away with lust.

It was simple: Respective orgasms. Then they could each go their separate ways and have a good night’s sleep.

Mycroft opened the door to Greg with a cool smile, leading him through to the living room. “Can I get you a drink?” he asked.

“Whatever you’re having.”

Mycroft smiled and nodded, trying to remove the knot of anxiety in his chest. He’d formulated a plan, and just as in his work, he would carry it through as intended. He filled the kettle before standing in the doorway, taking in Greg’s appearance. He was still wearing his black work trousers, but he had clearly gone home and showered, putting on a pale blue shirt which only worked to highlight his tanned skin.

“Heard from Sherlock?” Greg asked.

And that question was wrong. All wrong. They were not here for business, but for pleasure and pleasure alone. “Must we talk about my brother?” Mycroft asked. Mycroft held his eyes, staring down at him from across the room. “Honestly, Greg. You and I both know you didn’t come here to talk about Sherlock.”

Greg liked to be led. He would allow Mycroft to take charge, Mycroft was sure of it. And it was those two certainties which allowed Mycroft to stalk towards him, holding his eyes. Greg shifted in the chair, his fingers curling into the red cushion. His lips were parted and he flicked his tongue out to wet them.

“Move forward,” Mycroft murmured, lifting his chin a little.

Greg did as he was told, gazing up at Mycroft with a curious expression. He folded his arms against his chest. There was a small hint of chest hair peaking out from below his collar, and Mycroft longed to press a kiss there, to touch his whole body and find out what made him tick.

Mycroft licked his lips. He took a few steps towards Greg. He re-assessed his options. He could slide onto the settee and kiss him and they could have a repeat performance of that January evening. He could take Greg’s hand and lead him to his bedroom. He could have Greg lie on his front, press his fingers inside him until the man was begging and writhing beneath him. Then he would thrust inside, pressing kisses to the back of his neck. Or he could do the last thing Greg expected and sink to his knees. To use his mouth, his tongue, to bring Greg to the edge.

To be in control by appearing to submit. And wasn’t that an appealing option? To surprise him. And in that, to taste him.

Mycroft closed the gap between them before sinking down to his knees. His right knee twinged for only a second, and it reminded Mycroft that he wouldn’t make a habit of it. But the red carpet was thick and comfortable under his knees and he shuffled forward a little, reaching out to pry Greg’s legs apart. He knelt between them, staring up into Greg’s dark eyes.

Oh. Yes, he was an attractive man, and Mycroft could only _want_ with everything he had.

He stroked the inside of Greg’s thighs, committing Greg’s trembles and groans to his memory. Greg's trousers were tented, his fingers digging into the leather sofa.

Mycroft reached for his belt, unfastening it, licking his lips as he studied Greg’s strong jaw, the small cleft in his chin, the faint lines at the corners of his eyes. The skin beginning to wrinkle seemed to have come more from smiles than from frowns, and it struck Mycroft just how warm the man was. That even his skin had moulded to his joyful grins rather the stress resulting from hours staring at dead bodies and bent over paperwork.

He dropped Greg’s belt onto the floor before unfastening his trousers, knowing Greg was watching his every move. And he was absolutely certain that he was in control. He had no doubt that Greg would do near enough anything he asked, and that was intoxicating all by itself.

“Take them off,” he said, glancing down at Greg’s trousers.

Greg leaned back as he lifted his hips, pulling them half way down his thighs. Mycroft took them down the rest of the way, leaving them to pool around his ankles.

He leaned forward, finally close enough to Greg’s skin, smelling soap as he nuzzled the inside of his thigh. He kissed over the sensitive skin, close to Greg’s boxers but not touching. He bit the soft skin, his mouth curving into a pleased smile when Greg gasped in response, leaning further forward on the chair. Mycroft sucked a spot there, not stopping until it the skin was bruised. 

Greg stroked the front of his crotch with his hand and Mycroft grabbed his wrist, pinning it down to the chair. When Greg came, it would be with Mycroft’s agreement, and he would not allow Greg to touch himself. That was for Mycroft’s enjoyment.

“Fuck, I can’t…” Greg said, his voice shaking and desperate. He looked like a man who couldn’t believe his wildest fantasies were coming true. That he was somehow experiencing a dream.

“You too,” Mycroft said, gazing up at him.

“Me too what?”

“I have spent the day imagining a situation such as this. It is far more glorious than I expected.”

“You look good there,” Greg replied, grinning.

The conversation felt so easy. It wasn’t as though they knew one another that well, but it didn’t feel awkward at all. Greg’s cock twitched beneath his black boxers and Mycroft sat back on his knees. “Remove those, Greg,” he said, letting go of Greg’s wrist.

Greg did so, suddenly unable to meet Mycroft’s eyes, his cheeks going red. Mycroft eyed his cock, the precome on the head. Mycroft wrapped a hand around him, beginning to stroke him. He watched Greg’s expressions, studied the way his thighs tightened when Mycroft twisted his wrist a little. The way he gasped when Mycroft rubbed his thumb against the wet head of his prick.

“God please,” Greg groaned, and those words could have undone all of Mycroft’s control. He could have just leaned forward and taken him into his mouth and sucked him with no finesse until he came.

But control was more important than just giving in, and he licked his lips with purpose. It may have been at least five years since the last time he’d done this, but he remembered to cover his teeth with his lips. He swirled his tongue against the head, and Greg shuddered, squeezing Mycroft’s shoulder.

Mycroft wrapped his lips around him, taking his time to suck on the head, flicking his tongue against him. He catalogued all the spots that made Greg gasp and writhe and all the ways he gasped.

He took more of Greg's cock into his mouth, Greg letting out a desperate moan, his fingers squeezing Mycroft’s shoulder. He closed his eyes for a few seconds, feeling Greg’s length hard and hot against his tongue. His own cock twitched inside his trousers, but he ignored his own arousal, intent on pleasuring Greg as best he could.

He moved his hand in time with his mouth, opening his eyes again to look back up at Greg. They stared at each other. Mycroft hollowed his cheeks, tightening his lips around Greg’s cock. From above him, Greg gasped and his breath shook. His fingers brushed against the side of Mycroft’s neck and he shivered himself in response.

He wasn’t sure he could take Greg’s full length into his mouth, but he knew that wasn’t necessary. He took him as deep as he could though before releasing it, using his tongue to flick and swirl against the sensitive head again. Greg was panting and whimpering and making the most delicious sounds Mycroft had ever had the pleasure of hearing.

It was indecent and debauched, Greg’s cheeks were flushed and he was trembling and panting.

“Myc, I-” Greg said, his voice barely a whisper. Mycroft hated the way he said Myc, but he wasn’t going to break the spell for a moment to worry about correcting him. He sucked harder, noting as Greg’s legs shook, his whole body tensing. Mycroft gave him two quick strokes and Greg came onto Mycroft’s tongue. He slackened the pressure around his cock, keeping it in his mouth as his erection faded.

Greg slumped against the sofa and Mycroft lifted his head, swallowing back Greg’s come. He held Greg’s eyes, offering him a small smile. “Was that to your-” he began to say, but was cut off as Greg grabbed his tie and pulled him into a scorching kiss.

Mycroft allowed him to take over, losing himself to the battle. Greg tasted of a mix of coffee and nicotine, two of Mycroft’s favourite vices. Mycroft let Greg take him apart with his tongue and his lips and his teeth. He was carried away with it, curling his fingers in Greg’s shirt.

“Get on my lap,” Greg muttered breathlessly.

Mycroft blinked at him. That was… well… um… a little alarming. “Greg, I really don’t think… it’s not particularly… becoming. And besides I’m not as young as-”

“Shut up and straddle me,” Greg grinned at him, holding his arm out. Mycroft used it to haul himself up from his knees, taking a deep breath as Greg took hold of his hips. He began to unfasten Mycroft’s belt, and Mycroft felt out of control again. And apprehensive, uncertain.

“It really isn’t necessary,” Mycroft said.

“It’s what I spent the the last month fantasising about,” Greg said, looking up at him. He rubbed his hand against the front of Mycroft’s trousers and Mycroft trembled under his firm touch. “Please. Let me touch you.”

Mycroft swallowed. Yes, he wanted it too, more than anything, he couldn’t deny that. And he didn’t want to deny himself this, not anymore. He stood still as Greg eased his trousers down and he stepped out of them. He straddled Greg’s lap, his thighs either side of Greg’s legs.

Greg gripped his tie and pulled him into another heady kiss, their tongues pressing together. Greg’s hand slid underneath the waistband of Mycroft’s boxers and his fingers curled around his cock. Mycroft shuddered, pushing forward against his hand, urging him on.

He broke the kiss, pressing his nose against Greg’s cheek, feeling the very early stages of stubble forming there. He felt the pleasure in the pit of his stomach and down in his toes. He craved release like he’d never craved anything else.

Greg licked his sensitive neck, and sped up his hand. His thumb swiped against the head and Mycroft wished it would last so much longer, but everything was all too overwhelming. Greg’s hand was hot and certain and steady. He didn’t falter, he didn’t tire, not for a second. And he could inhale Greg’s now-familiar scent and he was sure in the future he’d be conditioned to be aroused by that smell every time.

He gasped as he came, burying his face in Greg’s neck. One of Greg’s arms wrapped around his back, securing him there while Mycroft’s body shook in the aftermath of his orgasm. Greg’s hand rubbed reassuringly against his back. There were only two thoughts in Mycroft’s head, both competing. One: He needed to get away from the embrace and fast. And two: He wanted to curl up to Greg and feel his arms around him for hours.

Only one thought was ever going to win. Mycroft kissed his jaw before pulling his boxers up as he slid onto the settee. He let out a contented sigh, turning his head to gaze at the other man. “Shall we have that coffee now?” he asked, his body feeling like liquid. He wasn't certain he could move, even if he tried. 

“Sounds good,” Greg said, as he stood up and dressed. Mycroft watched him with a pleased smile. “I’ll do it,” Greg added.

Mycroft stared after him as Greg retreated into the kitchen. Mycroft wanted to protest. It was his kitchen and Greg was his guest. And besides, it was too familiar, letting someone into his kitchen. He had a system and an order and he was certain Greg was going to put things in the wrong places… But he sat back and listened as Greg opened and closed cupboards.

With a roll of his eyes, Mycroft stood up and pulled his trousers up. He padded over to the kitchen, taking the milk out of the fridge. “This is all most troubling,” he said. “I am rarely a slave to my desires.”

“Might be good for you. Are you okay?” Greg asked, opening a drawer. Mycroft stayed silent, mulling the question over. Greg must have sensed his hesitance because he turned to him and asked: “You want me to go?”

Mycroft shook his head. “Stay for a coffee,” he said, though he wasn’t convinced it was what he wanted.

“I’ll ring Sherlock in the morning,” Greg said. “If he’s not talking to you, maybe he’ll talk to me.”

“Thank you,” Mycroft whispered. Greg stirred their drinks. He’d made instant coffee. The pot was only in the cupboard for when Mycroft had to entertain his parents, as his mother preferred it to ground coffee. But although he knew he wouldn’t enjoy the drink, he carried it to the living room without protest anyway.

Mycroft took his preferred seat by the fire, needing to distance himself from Greg at all costs. Greg sat on the sofa, resting one ankle on the opposite knee. He was so at ease. Mycroft didn’t understand how that was possible.

But he was grateful to Greg, at least, for all he’d done in the past few months. He thought to his new office, his new role at Baskerville, and the certainty he had that the Prime Minister would be making greater demands on him in the coming months. “I believe I am due to receive a promotion at work,” he said, frowning.

“Congratulations,” Greg replied.

“Thank you. I had considered turning it down.”

Greg frowned. “Why?”

Mycroft sighed. “Sherlock. I truly believed we had gotten beyond his ridiculous addiction. And now I fear he needs me more than ever.”

“He’s not on his own, you know?” Greg asked.

“Yes,” Mycroft said, holding his eyes. “He has you. Which is the reason I fully intend to accept the offer, when I receive it.”

“Why are you telling me this?” Greg asked.

“I didn’t want you to think our physical arrangement was my way of thanking you. I would hate for you to think I regarded sex as some sort of payment for taking care of my brother.”

Greg smiled. “I never thought that.”

Mycroft watched him. And he hadn’t, had he? He’d taken what was offered, not expecting it to be a favour or for there to be an ulterior motive. Because he was different, so very different to everyone else. “No,” Mycroft said softly, staring down at his drink. “No, you didn’t.”

Greg burnt his mouth on the coffee. Mycroft smiled at him, amused at his impatience. He tilted his head back, cradling his mug in his hands. His mind had switched itself off for the first time in weeks and he could think clearly about his plans for the rest of the month ahead. He lost track of time as he considered his options and his plans.

“I should go,” Greg finally said, putting his mug on the table and pulling Mycroft out of his thoughts. “I’ve got work tomorrow.”

Mycroft smiled at him. “Sleep well, Greg.”

Greg nodded. “And you.” He grinned at Mycroft before walking to the door and leaving. Mycroft peered down at his coffee and took his drink to the kitchen where he poured it down the sink.

He cleaned up their mugs before he went to the bathroom to brush his teeth. He smiled a little to himself. He’d lost the tension in his shoulders and his back. He felt as though he could slide under the covers and be asleep in an instant.

He didn’t even bother reading. He just curled up, closed his eyes and drifted off in a matter of minutes.

* * *

 

The next day, he walked into the rehabilitation centre, Greg’s cases under his arm. He found Sherlock in the gym, wafting a tree branch around as though it were a sword.

Mycroft smiled wistfully, leaning against the door frame, watching as his brother spun and stabbed the air, taking out invisible assailants. He threw the stick up in the air, spinning once before catching it in the opposite hand. He thrust out his arm so the tip of it tapped Mycroft in the centre of his chest.

Mycroft raised his hands, offering Sherlock a slow and exaggerated applause. “I didn’t know you could still do that,” he said, stepping into the empty room and closing the door behind him.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, throwing the stick into a bin. “I could still beat you.”

“I’m sure you could. I’m not quite as young as I used to be, after all.”

“Remarkably thinner though,” Sherlock said, eyeing him. “Although perhaps that might be something to do with your sudden interest in greying Detective Inspectors.”

Mycroft glared at him. “Hardly. Long hours spent at Whitehall.”

Sherlock nodded, holding his hand out. “Are they my cases?”

Mycroft passed the files to him. “The top one is supposedly more difficult.”

Sherlock grinned a crooked smile as he opened it. “You’ve looked at them already,” he said.

“I was curious.”

“And you don’t actually think the top one is more difficult.” Sherlock dropped down onto one of the blue gym mats, spreading the papers out across it. “Oh, God, you’re right.” He looked up at Mycroft. “Is this really the best Lestrade can do?”

“The others are better.”

“How long did it take you?”

“27 minutes,” Mycroft said, sitting down on the windowsill. “Before you start on those, I should warn you that the Kirkcudbright case may link to something bigger.”

“Something you won’t share with Lestrade.”

Mycroft nodded. “All the signs indicate Hadrian wasn’t killed by an employee or a family member, which only suggests it relates to his work. I may need you to hold back a little from sharing everything with Inspector Lestrade, once you are released from here.”

“What’s in it for me?”

“What do you want to be in it for you?”

Sherlock frowned, flicking through the papers. “My violin.”

“Then move out of your flat.”

“Nope.”

Mycroft sighed. “Then no, Sherlock. It’ll be stolen within a day. Come up with something else.”

“I want the files.”

Mycroft frowned. “What files?”

“You know what files.” They held one another’s eyes, glaring.

Mycroft knew what he wanted, but it was one request he would never grant. “No,” Mycroft finally said. “They don’t exist.”

“You can’t lie to me to save your life,” Sherlock huffed. “Don’t bother trying. I want them.”

“There’s nothing to give,” Mycroft said. “It was six years ago, can’t you let it go?”

“No,” Sherlock replied. “No, I can’t.”

Mycroft swallowed, staring down at Sherlock. “I can’t,” he said. “There are some things it’s better not knowing.” Mycroft sighed and stood up. He walked for the door.

“Have you seen them?” Sherlock asked to his back.

Mycroft nodded. “Of course I have,” he said.

“Are they dead?” Sherlock asked.

Mycroft turned to face him. “Who?” he asked.

“The person who killed him. Are they dead?”

Mycroft took a deep breath, keeping his face as impassive as he could. “Time’s ticking, Sherlock. You have to beat 27 minutes to beat.” And he turned and left the room, his own heart thumping in his chest.

* * *

**April 2006.**

**Location: 10 Downing Street, London.**

Mycroft knew he was being kept waiting. He could hear the Prime Minister laughing on the other side of the door, his casual tone indicting it was most likely his wife on the other end of the line rather than anyone involved in work.

Around 15 minutes had passed since they were due to meet. Mycroft sat calmly in his chair, his hands folded on his lap.

Anthea would be going mad, he knew. She kept to a strict timetable and the Prime Minister’s lateness would not please her at all. He tilted his head up as the door opened and the Prime Minister grinned at him. “Sorry to keep you waiting.”

“Not at all,” Mycroft said, shaking his hand. He followed him into his office, accepting his offer of a chair. “How can I help?”

“Tell me a bit about yourself,” the Prime Minister said, picking up a teapot and pouring them both a drink. “I take it you worked for MI5?”

“Correct.”

“Then what?”

“I worked for MI6 and then began to work in the Civil Service.”

“Right,” the Prime Minister said, frowning. “Okay. So, how does someone end up straddling two of the secret services?”

Mycroft smiled. “I suppose you could say I was headhunted.”

“By who?”

“I’m not at liberty to say.”

The Prime Minister took a seat. “I hate you lot.”

Mycroft raised an eyebrow. “I’m sorry?” he asked.

“I’m the PM, but you can only tell me things on a need-to-know basis. But who decides when I need to know? Your lot do. You… MI5 and MI6 and GCHQ people. And who takes the flak when you muck up? Me.”

“That’s a fair assessment,” Mycroft conceded. “But we were here before you were elected, and will continue to be after you are gone. And that’s why you cannot know everything. With all due respect, your role is temporary and mine isn’t.”

“You ever worked for GCHQ?”

Mycroft pursed his lips. “The security services work together.”

“You know about the Joint Intelligence Committee?”

“Of course.”

“You know Woodborough’s about to step down?”

Mycroft frowned. “I wasn’t aware, no. Then again, he and I were never what you would class as best friends.”

“Why not?”

Mycroft smiled. “I assume you’ve met the man?”

The Prime Minister laughed. “Yeah, he’s a stubborn sod. Anyway, he’s retiring. We need a new chairman for the committee. And guess who I thought would fit the bill?”

“That wouldn’t be me by any chance, would it?”

“What do you think?”

Mycroft paused for a moment, considering. “Everyone knows the name of the chairman. It’s… official.”

“So?”

“I can’t be that for you.”

“Why not?”

“Because the work I do is too important,” Mycroft said. “I’m not a celebrity name you can fix to your committees. You have plenty of loyal and talented servants who will happily become a figurehead for you. They will quite happily take on a role of a puppet.”

“If you’re not a puppet then what are you?”

“I’m a shadow, sir.”

“You’re the puppet master.”

Mycroft smiled. “I thought that was more your role.”

“Temporarily. Perhaps you don’t understand the role of the chairman on the committee.”

“Oh, I understand the role,” Mycroft said. “The committee sets the agenda for MI5, MI6, GCHQ and Defence Intelligence. It’s a very important job. Don’t put me on the committee.”

“Look, Mycroft, I want to get you more involved in an official capacity. I’ve seen your work, it’s been… exemplary.”

Mycroft sat back in his seat. “The Intelligence and Security Committee of Parliament oversees the work carried about by the Joint Intelligence Committee, correct?”

The Prime Minister nodded. “I appoint the members of the Intelligence and Security Committee of Parliament. Do you want me to kick someone off?”

“No, sir. I want you to give me oversight over that committee.”

The Prime Minister paused, chewing his lip. “What’s in it for me?”

“You have my ear, Prime Minister,” Mycroft said, trying to keep his posture as open as possible, trying to appear trustworthy. “I’m sure you could have almost anything you liked. Including those secrets you’re so concerned people are keeping from you.”

The Prime Minister stared at him for a moment. “You want to oversee the committee that already oversees the intelligence committee?”

Mycroft nodded. “For a start. I also think I should work more closely with the Home Secretary. I think it would benefit us both if you would allow me to spend more time managing his caseload.”

“And you report to me,” the Prime Minister murmured.

“I serve you, sir,” Mycroft said with a cool smile. “Consider me your closest ally. Of course, I will continue to share my opinion on your policies as and when you ask.”

The Prime Minister grinned, standing up. “You drive a hard bargain.”

Mycroft smiled, shaking his hand. “As do you,” he said. He turned and left, a satisfied smile on his face. It was entirely possible that he had been given permission to know more about the country’s national security and policing than the Prime Minister himself. 


	15. Negotiations

**May 2006.**

**Location: Coeur de Lion Offices, Mayfair, London.**

“How much can we work out about how she came to be in England?” Mycroft asked as he re-read the documents relating to Tatiana Garzone’s murder.

Anthea was stretched out over the brown leather couch in his office, high heeled shoes kicked off hours ago. She was working on her laptop, printing out documents sporadically. They’d been working there for the past 12 hours, eating take-away Chinese food mid-way through the evening.

She shook her head, taking a sip of her peppermint tea. “Not a lot. I can’t ask questions so I’m just trying to get whatever I can from our spy rock.”

Mycroft stared at her. “The spy rock?”

“Mmm,” she said, tossing some papers onto the floor. “Hugh Seagroves was as furious as you were, so he confiscated the data until he’d had a proper look at it himself. I asked for him to send it our way too.”

“You don’t speak Russian.”

“I’m learning,” she protested. “Anyway, there’s a whole list of names here. All Russian agents. Tatiana Garzone is mentioned.”

“Anyone else we know of?”

“I’m looking now. It looks as though Tatiana was involved in feeding MI6 information. I’ll print this out, take a look.”

Mycroft spun around in his chair, pulling the papers from the printer. “Oh yes,” he said as he skimmed the list. “Her code number was used.” He bit his lip frowning. “None of the information she gave MI6 is relevant. It’s all about computer systems and viruses and technology. Why would anyone care about computer systems?” Unless… He paused, sitting up straight. “Anthea, don’t say a word.”

She mimed zipping her lips, and stopped typing on her keyboard.

Mycroft stood up, walking around his desk until he was stood over the files spread out over the floor. “It was long, long before my time,” he murmured. “But when GCHQ was working on Russian sigint - that's signal intelligence - in the early 1950s, they picked up hundreds of documents relating to a new encryption device. They were, rightly, alarmed. Officers had risked their lives to get hold of the Russian equipment so they could access their codes. A new device could mean months, if not years, of work.” He knelt down, picking up some of the papers. “But it wasn’t true. The Russians knew someone was picking up on, and using, their intelligence. And so they lied. She was a smart woman, one of the best in the business. There's more to this than meets the eye.” He glanced at Anthea. “You can talk.”

“I don’t have anything to say.”

He smiled at her. “Yes, you do. Say it. Sometimes stating the obvious is useful.”

“Do you think that the computer systems is a code for something else?”

Mycroft nodded. “Yes.”

“Weapons?”

Mycroft frowned. “No. No, it’s for something more complex. Something new, something to do with computers and equipment.” He picked up some of their translated files. “Who translated these?”

“Mündel.”

Mycroft paused. “I need copies of the originals.”

Anthea hit print and Mycroft collected the papers, reading through them. “I can see why she did it,” he murmured as he read the original text. “But when it says computer virus, I don’t think that’s what Garzone meant.”

“What do you think she meant?”

Mycroft paused, leaning against his desk as he studied the translations and the original documents. “I don't think she means virus in the literal sense. I think she means something darker, something corrupting." He frowned. "I think she’s talking about a brand of cyber terrorists. Has there been any unusual activity picked up at all? Anything to do with a new organisation threatening people?”

“No. Nothing. We’d know.”

“I know we’d know. But it’s all here.”

“You think it’s there,” Anthea said.

“I know it is.” He frowned. “If we knew what she was referencing, we’d know who killed both her and Nickolay Garzone." 

“Really?”

Mycroft knelt down, picking up a wad of papers with a list of money transfers. “This all came from the Russian Government, correct?”

“Yes. Russian agents used the spy rock to send us any documents they could smuggle out. Some of them are official Government documents, such as those money transfers.”

Mycroft nodded. “There are some payments here to their weapons manufacturers. But the payments drop off last year.”

Anthea stood up, padding over to him. “I see. Maybe they had everything they needed?”

“But the same financial transactions start again, only paid to another company.” Mycroft paused, tapping his finger against the name. MOR. “I imagine it’s a private company. A new weapons manufacturer? It's not a name I'm familiar with.”

“If it’s a company then it’ll probably be registered.”

Mycroft nodded. “Yes. Its tax registration number is on this list. But there are different numbers for all of these references under MOR.”

“That’s not a Russian tax number,” Anthea said. “It’s completely different to the others.”

Mycroft paused for a moment, skimming through the list. “You’re right. I haven’t got time to trawl through tax codes of the world’s weapons manufacturers.”

“Get Danny to do it,” Anthea said. “We’ll only give him these sheets, he won’t know anything else. But he’s the computer genius. I’m sure he can do some database searches or whatever it is he does.”

Mycroft nodded. “Good idea.” He handed the files to Anthea and frowned. “I was so sure there was something else we were missing,” he said. He sat back down at his desk, frowning. “Go home,” he said. “We’ve been here long enough.”

“I don’t mind.”

“Go. I’ll be leaving too soon.” Anthea smiled and began to collect her laptop and papers. “Who’s teaching you Russian?” Mycroft asked suddenly, studying her.

“My boyfriend.”

Mycroft stared at her. “When did that happen?”

“It’s new.”

Mycroft narrowed his eyes. “What’s his name?”

“I’m not going to let you do a background check on him, sir. He’s fine.”

“Anthea…”

“Goodnight, sir.” She left the room, leaving him alone with a pile of paperwork. He sighed and stood up himself, preparing to go home.

* * *

Within days, he had a key to his new Whitehall office. The Prime Minister said his old one was far too small for a man with his new responsibilities.

He opened the door and looked around. It was larger, with a dark wooden desk and bookcases already in place. It was sparsely decorated with cream walls with red curtains. It would suit him, he thought, stepping in.

He wandered to the window, staring out into the street. Having a ground floor office wasn’t ideal, but it would do for official meetings with politicians and civil servants at least.

He settled behind his desk and began to work.

* * *

Over the next few days, he and Anthea continued their investigations, trying desperately to pull the Garzone case apart.

It was mid-morning when Anthea opened his office door and delivered pages full of website addresses onto his desk - at just around the time Loretta usually brought him his morning coffee.

“What exactly am I looking at?” he asked.

“Internet history from New Scotland Yard.”

He glanced at her and raised an eyebrow. “I see,” he said, flicking through the pages.

“Check the search engines. Page 17.”

Mycroft sighed and turned to the page. The words ‘Tatiana’ and ‘Garzone’ jumped out to him immediately. “Who did this?” he asked.

“No idea. They come through a database, we can’t link them to a specific computer.”

“It’s got to be Greg Lestrade’s team.”

“I imagine so,” she agreed. “Or the someone very senior.”

“It’s possible Sherlock found out somehow,” Mycroft said, frowning. “Maybe he told DI Lestrade, maybe he looked it up.”

“Either way, someone’s looking into it.”

Mycroft stood up. “Then we should go and see him, I suppose.”

“Let me. You don’t need to see him for this.”

“Anthea, it’s fine.”

She frowned. “But it’s a waste of your time.”

“Stop arguing with me. I’ll do it.”

Anthea waited by the door while Mycroft collected his umbrella. She held the door open for him. “I still have the champagne I got you for your promotion on my desk. If you’re not careful, I’m going to take it and drink it.”

Mycroft smiled at her. “You’re welcome to it. You can have it during your week off.”

“It’s your promotion. You should have it.”

Mycroft rolled his eyes and walked out to the car, sliding in at the back. He frowned as this phone went off and read the message from Sherlock. “Can we go via Sherlock’s flat?” he asked his driver, Malcolm. “He needs a lift to St Bartholomew’s.”

Sherlock was already waiting outside the flat when Mycroft’s car pulled up. He got into the car, glared across at Mycroft and then turned his attention to the window.

Mycroft raised his eyebrows. “Are you really so lazy that you couldn’t take yourself to the hospital without imposing on me?” he asked.

Sherlock turned to him, narrowing his eyes. “Where are you going?” He studied Mycroft for a second and then rolled his eyes. “Ah. Of course. Lestrade.”

“For a case.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Of course.”

“What are you doing at St Bartholomew's?”

“Experiments.” And quick as a flash Sherlock reached across the seat, grabbing Mycroft’s tie and plucking it free of his waistcoat.

“What are you-” he began to say, but Sherlock cut the tip of it off, tucking it into his pocket. Mycroft glared at him, pulling his tie off and throwing it onto the floor. “For goodness sake,” he muttered.

“Experiment,” Sherlock said with a smug smile, but Mycroft couldn’t help but feel he was trying to get him back for something. Mycroft glared at him and turned to the window. They didn’t say a word to each other for the rest of the journey.

After dropping Sherlock off, Mycroft made his way through New Scotland Yard with Anthea in tow, ignoring the curious glances of Greg’s colleagues. He knocked on the door and opened it. Greg smiled at him as their eyes met, before his expression turned to a frown. Mycroft stared at him before realising what was wrong. “Sherlock,” he explained. “He demanded I gave him a lift to Bartholomew’s and the reward for my favour was the destruction of my tie.”

Greg laughed. “He’ll probably use it in an experiment. He did the same to mine last year.”

Mycroft shook his head. “He’s worse than ever since he got back. May I have a seat?”

“Course. What’s up? Do you want a coffee?”

A coffee sounded wonderful, Mycroft thought as he took the seat, since he hadn’t had time for one yet. “Yes please.”

“Anthea?” Greg offered. “Coffee?”

“No,” she said.

“Sherlock has been working with you a lot this week,” Mycroft said, studying him. He’d quit smoking again it seemed. He’d taste different, Mycroft mused, without the cigarettes. A little bit of Mycroft hated how much he wanted to know what difference it would make when they kissed.

“Yeah, we’ve had a few things on,” Greg said with a smile. “Nothing impossible, but enough to keep us going.” Greg put the mugs down on the desk and sat back down. “So, what brings you both here?”

“One of your officers is still investigating the death of the Russian woman,” Mycroft said, studying him.

Greg frowned. “No they’re not.” Mycroft kept a close watch on Greg’s face for his tells. But he wasn’t lying. He had absolutely no idea someone had searched for Tatiana Garzone’s name.

“Yes they are,” Mycroft said.

Anthea put some papers down on the desk and Mycroft slid them over to Greg. “Those are internet searches from the Yard in the past month,” Anthea informed him.

Greg tensed for a moment, his jaw visibly clenching. He reached out and took away Mycroft’s mug. Mycroft paused, pressing his lips together. “I’m taking your coffee hostage,” Greg said. “I don’t know when I’m going to give it back to you yet. You can’t just trace our Google searches.”

“Yes we can and we have,” Anthea told him. “Tell the person involved to drop the matter immediately.”

“No you can’t,” Greg said.

“Greg-” Mycroft started.

Greg pointed at him. “No. Don’t do that. Look, I don’t know who it was, but it’s not like I told them the Government walked into my office and took my files.”

Anthea sighed. “Mr Holmes, I told you I should have handled this.”

Mycroft held his hand up, silencing her. “Greg, I thought you and I understood each other.”

Greg snorted. “Understood each other? Are you actually having a laugh? In what way do I understand you?” Mycroft paused for a moment, unsure of what to say. He glanced down at the coffee. “Are you pouting?” Greg asked, grinning.

“No,” Mycroft said, frowning.

“How badly do you want this coffee?” Greg asked, holding the mug up. Mycroft followed the mug’s movements with his eyes. “It’s pretty decent actually. Well, decent for me anyway, I don’t make good coffee apparently.”

Mycroft pressed his lips together. He actually agreed with that, although it was hardly Greg’s fault he used the instant coffee and not the granules… “Your staff need to stop looking into the case,” he said instead.

“Alright,” Greg said, gesturing to the door. “Go and tell them that.”

Mycroft sighed. “I explained the situation-”

“This is my job, Mycroft.”

“And this is _my_ job, Detective Inspector.”

“Oh for God’s sake,” Anthea muttered.

“Anthea!” Mycroft snapped, turning to look at her.

“What?” she asked. Mycroft pursed his lips. She was still so impetuous, he thought. Though in many ways, she may have been doing Mycroft a favour, playing the impatient ‘bad cop’. Not that Mycroft thought he was anything resembling ‘good cop’.

“Detective Inspector,” Anthea began. “My boss needs your staff to do what we’re asking. It would be very much appreciated.”

“Anthea…” Mycroft murmured.

“Mr Holmes. You employ me because you trust my negotiation skills. I am under the impression the Detective Inspector expects something in return for his help.”

“No, I don’t need anything-” Greg started.

“Anthea, please leave us a moment,” Mycroft said sharply. He waited until the door closed behind her. He tilted his head, observing the tightness in Greg’s lips and the narrowing of his eyes. “You’re unhappy.”

“Too right I bloody am,” Greg muttered.

“What can I give you to improve your mood?”

“A promise you’ll stop spying on me.”

Mycroft shook his head. “I’m not spying on you.”

“Feels like it.”

Mycroft frowned. Greg still didn’t trust him, despite everything they’d done together. Despite being in Mycroft’s home twice, that hadn’t been enough to prove to him that Mycroft deserved his trust. “Come to my office this evening,” Mycroft said.

“Why?”

“Because I’ll make it worth your time.”

“How?”

“I have been in a new job for the past two weeks and I’m yet to celebrate.”

Greg rolled his eyes. “I thought you wanted to improve my mood, not invite me to a party to celebrate your pay rise.” He turned back to his computer.

“It isn’t a party. It would be you and I and a bottle of champagne.”

Greg hesitated before turning to face him. “Is it expensive?”

Mycroft smiled coolly. “Only the very best.”

“Is it paid for by the tax payer? Only, if it is paid for by the tax payer, then I don’t think it’s right that you get to drink all of it.”

Mycroft felt his heart race a little. “So I can expect to see you this evening?” he asked. 

Greg folded his arms. “This is not me forgiving you.”

Mycroft smiled a little. “I know.”

“It better be bloody good champagne.”

“I promise.”

“Is this how you negotiate with everyone? Offer them a bottle of bubbly?”

“There are many offers I can make,” Mycroft murmured, holding his eyes.

“Well, don’t I feel special…” Greg muttered.

“Why not? I can count on one hand the number of people who have visited this particular office.”

Greg grinned and shook his head. “Mycroft, even if your office is an executive box at the Emirates, it’s not going to impress me.”

Mycroft frowned. “Why not?”

“Because buildings and power don’t impress me.”

He paused. Oh. But… well… “And what does impress you?”

“You’re the genius. Figure it out.”

Mycroft collected his paperwork, wondering how on earth he was the one on the back foot.. “I will see you this evening. The car will be by your flat at 8.30pm.”

“See you tonight then,” Greg said, their eyes fixed on each other.

Mycroft bit his lip, wavering. “Have a nice day.”

“And you. Don’t go giving someone else that champagne. It’s got my name on it.”

Mycroft nodded, before glancing down at the papers. “Greg, needless to say…”

“My staff will stop looking into your case.” Greg looked at him. “You need a better way of asking me to do things for you, Mycroft. Saying please wouldn’t actually kill you.”

“I’ll bear that in mind,” Mycroft murmured as he stood up and made for the door.

“Hey, Mycroft,” Greg said. He turned and looked at him. “Sorry about the coffee hostage situation.”

Mycroft gave him a half smile. “All is fair in negotiation,” he said, before leaving the office. He raised his eyebrows at Anthea who shrugged a little as they walked through the building. “You undermined me,” he said as they reached the car.

“I helped you. You were trying to intimidate him. It doesn’t work on him. I've told you that before.”

Mycroft frowned, handing the documents to her. “What am I doing today?”

“Diogenes time and a lot of it. Oh, and it’s Danny Finck’s daughter’s 10th birthday. There’s a gift for her in your drawer.”

Mycroft glanced at her. “Why am I giving his daughter a gift?”

“Because he’s not been home in three days, that’s why.”

“Why on earth hasn’t he been home for three days?”

“Because he’s trying to simultaneously add the new settings for Watchtower, fix everyone’s computer problems, create a new programme for encrypting documents being sent to and from GCHQ and looking for the business Russia’s paying millions of pounds to.”

Mycroft nodded distractedly, looking at his phone. “As good a reason as any to treat his daughter, I suppose.”

“It’s a first edition Beatrix Potter book.”

“I see. Thank you, Anthea.”

“You’re welcome. It’d be nice if you gave it to him in person.”

Mycroft nodded. “Duly noted,” he said. "Greg Lestrade is coming to our office this evening. If you could remove anything incriminating from my office, I'd be grateful."

"Of course."

Mycroft bit his lip. "And we may as well give him an access card. I want him to trust me. I want him to see that I trust him."

"Yes, sir," Anthea said with a smile. 

* * *

Mycroft looked up as Danny walked into his office that evening. “I’ve just see the amendments to Watchtower,” Mycroft said. “They’re good, thank you.”

Danny smiled. “You’re welcome, sir. I-I came to tell you I’ve finished looking for the MOR business. There’s nothing anywhere. I’m sorry. I couldn’t find the tax number. I don’t know what it is.”

Mycroft nodded. “It’s fine. I always thought it was a shot in the dark. Danny, I know you’ve been working…” He blinked at a message on his screen. “Sorry, Danny, could you please do me a favour and collect Greg Lestrade from downstairs? Anthea’s otherwise engaged.”

“Of course, sir.”

“Thank you.” He watched as Danny left before collecting up all of the folders and papers from his desk, putting them into a drawer. He stood up, smoothing down his jacket and collecting two champagne flutes from his drinks cabinet. He locked it back up and carried them to his desk. He sat back down behind it. He touched his hair and smoothed it down. It wasn’t until he sat back, crossed and uncrossed his legs and tapped his fingers against that table that he realised he was nervous. He shook his head, frustrated with himself.

He looked up as Danny showed Greg in, composing himself and resting his hands on the table. “Thank you, Danny,” he murmured, but he was already looking past him, butterflies fluttering in his stomach. Greg had dressed in a dark blue shirt, matched with a pair of smart jeans. As smart as jeans got, anyway. His hair had got longer in recent weeks, but he hadn’t put so much product in it. And Mycroft couldn’t tear his eyes away.

Mycroft saw Danny move out of he corner of his eye and he glanced at him. “Please go home now,” he said. “I no longer require you.” He paused. There was something he was supposed to be doing. Ah. “Wish your daughter a very happy birthday,” he added quickly. “Here…” He opened a drawer and held out a small book.

Danny stared at him, taking a cautious step closer to the desk. “What is it, sir?” he asked.

“It is a first edition Beatrix Potter book,” Mycroft said, turning it over in his hands. “The first she published. Anthea was sure your daughter would like it. Ten is, after all, a landmark year.”

A small smile grew over Danny’s face as he stepped forward to take it, shaking his head. “This is amazing, thank you, sir. Kim will love it.”

Mycroft smiled at him, pleased. “Good evening, Danny.”

“Night, sir,” Danny said as he walked out of the office.

Mycroft closed his drawer, surprised at just how pleasant that gesture had felt.

“That was really nice,” Greg said.

Mycroft glanced at him. “It is important to keep your employees on your side,” he said. And though that was the case, he couldn’t help but think Danny probably deserved it too, after all the dedicated work he had put in.

“Yeah, I agree with that,” Greg said. He was looking around the office, a sceptical frown on his face. He was truly uncomfortable for the first time since Mycroft had met him. And that bothered Mycroft. “This is like Batman’s office. If he had an office. Do you really like this kind of room?”

Mycroft went to reply and then hesitated. “I didn’t really have a say in the decor,” he said. “It came like this, and I saw no reason to change it.”

“It’s intimidating,” Greg said.

Mycroft found that bothered him more than he liked. “I am not trying to intimidate you,” he replied. “Please take a seat.”

Greg strolled over to the desk, his jeans clinging nicely - too nicely - to his well-muscled thighs. Football and running agreed with him. He sat down and chewed his lip, his eyes still flicking around the office. Mycroft watched him. He had nothing to say. His mind had gone blank. It was the most unpleasant feeling in the world. He had nothing to say.

Thank small mercies for Anthea, because she walked in with a bottle of champagne. She put it down and gave Greg an access card to the Coeur de Lion offices.

She took hold of the champagne bottle. “Would you like me to open this, sir?” she asked, looking at Mycroft.

“No, I will do it. Thank you, Anthea. Please, enjoy your holiday.”

“I will,” she said, smiling. “I will see you in a week.” She looked at Greg. “Keep him out of trouble,” she added, before leaving the office.

Greg laughed. “I can’t imagine you’re ever in trouble.”

Mycroft glared at her retreating back before offering Greg a small smile. “Anthea keeps me in line,” he said. He took hold of the champagne bottle and began twisting the metal hook.

“So, how many offices do you have?” Greg asked him.

“A few. I moved to a new one in Whitehall a few days ago.”

“For your promotion?” Greg asked.

“Yes.” Mycroft took the cork out, smiling at the pleasant pop. He poured the champagne before passing a glass to Greg.

“Well. To your promotion then,” Greg said.

“Thank you.”

They each sipped their drinks, Mycroft studying Greg out of the corner of his eye. He couldn’t help but smile when Greg closed his eyes, a pleased smile on his face.

“It’s good,” Greg said.

“Anthea has exquisite taste.”

“So do you,” Greg said, and he was focusing on the furniture in a way which made Mycroft uncomfortable. As though he thought Mycroft only cared about owning physical things and not the pleasures of having an attractive man in his office.

“Yes, I do,” Mycroft replied, holding Greg’s eyes. Greg blushed, dipping his head. “Do I make you uncomfortable?” he asked.

“No,” Greg said. “No, never. I just. So. What’s your favourite colour?”

Mycroft stared at him, trying to dissect what Greg meant by asking that. Was there a wrong answer? Red meant anger, but also passion. Perhaps that would give the wrong impression. Green was more soothing, but also represented envy and he wasn’t envious. Purple was royal. He didn’t want to seem arrogant. And black could be power and evil and… Better to say nothing, he thought. “I don’t believe I have a favourite colour.

“I like red,” Greg said.

Mycroft paused. Red. Passion, love, anger… Or Greg’s favourite football team. “Ah yes. Arsenal.”

Greg nodded. “Yeah.”

Mycroft bit his lip. Not yellow or orange or pink or… Green was acceptable. It was soothing and natural. Perhaps Greg didn’t see the connotations after all… “Green,” he finally said. “It isn’t a colour I wear very often. In fact, I don’t think I even own a green tie. But I think that’s what I prefer.”

“Oh.”

Mycroft shifted in his chair. Was it his turn to ask a question now? Was that the game they were playing? “Do you go to football often?” he asked.

“No, a couple of games a season. They sort of out-price fans there, to be honest. But I watch it on TV when I can. When they’re on.”

“Why did you choose Arsenal?”

“The ground was about 20 minutes away from the kids’ home. I used to…” Greg smiled. “When I used to sneak out, I’d go on Saturdays and sit outside and listen to the cheering during the games.”

“That sounds wonderful,” Mycroft murmured, stunned Greg had shared that with him. He’d always thought he kept his past locked away. He never in a million years thought Greg would share any stories of his childhood with him.

“Have you ever been interested in sport?” Greg asked.

“Not particularly,” Mycroft said. He sipped the champagne, frowning for a moment. He’d fenced, until Sherlock got better than him. He’d run, a little, before that. And he had watched the rowing when Ethan was involved. “A man I was intimate with at university was a cox for the First Team at Oxford. I would occasionally watch their races.”

“When was your last relationship?” Greg asked.

Mycroft swallowed, pursing his lips. That would have been Tristan Castleton, until Sherlock overdosed. “Around five years ago.

“You’re younger than me, right?” Greg asked.

Mycroft smiled a little. “I don’t know,” he lied, not wanting to give away how much he knew about Greg’s life. “Am I?”

“I’m 39,” Greg said.

“36,” Mycroft replied, sipping his drink.

“You don’t need to look so smug about that,” Greg grinned.

“When was the last time you were with a man?” Mycroft asked.

“Just before I met Caroline.”

“Do you miss her?”

“No not really,” Greg said. “I guess I should, but, no.”

Mycroft nodded. He settled into his chair, relaxing. They met each other’s eyes and glanced away. Mycroft swallowed. “Greg, I feel should make myself clear. I am not looking for a relationship.”

“Neither am I,” Greg said. “Divorce isn’t even finalised yet and I’m… I liked having sex with you though. So if you ever wanted…”

“I do,” Mycroft whispered, ashamed, as he stared down at his table.

“Willing to be a slave to your desires, huh?”

Mycroft smiled, looking back at him and at his shirt, the hint of chest hair above the collar. The way his shirt clung to his strong shoulders… “On this occasion, I think I may give in, yes. You’re very undemanding.”

“Undemanding?”

“Yes. You have no expectations of me. I find I rather appreciate that.”

Greg shrugged. “I kinda like hanging out with you as… well, friends almost, sort of, maybe? You know what I mean.”

“As friends,” Mycroft agreed as alarm bells rang in his head telling him to back off and shut the conversation down immediately. His mouth went dry. The words weren’t coming out.

“Yeah, as friends. With a bit of sex thrown in for good measure,” Greg continued.

Mycroft smiled, and his expression was rebelling with everything he thought. “Yes,” he agreed. Friends. Oh good Lord. Was that where they were? Did friends ask about favourite colours and past relationships? He wasn’t sure.

And then Greg grinned, his eyes sparkling as he kicked his shoes off and rested his socked feet on Mycroft’s desk. Mycroft raised his eyebrows. Well, at least he took his shoes off first, he thought, regarding the hole at the bottom of his right sock. Mycroft knew he should tell Greg to cease immediately. It was his building, his office, his desk. But he wasn’t tempted to. It… amused him.

Greg was smiling, like a man wondering how far he could push it. Wondering how far he could go until Mycroft snapped or worse. And Mycroft wasn’t even tempted to tell him to stop. A feeling of horror came over him. Oh, he was in trouble. Greg was a friend and deserved to be regarded as such. Mycroft knew he needed to think about this and what it meant later, but now wasn’t the time, not when he was enjoying the champagne and staring at Greg’s feet on his antique and incredibly expensive desk.

“You’re incorrigible,” Mycroft told him with a genuine smile.

Greg laughed. “I’ve heard that before.”

Mycroft hummed as he sipped his champagne, letting the bubbles fizzle on his tongue. His shoulders felt looser than they had in months, the alcohol taking the edge of his tension.

Greg was gazing at him with a lazy smile, licking his lips as he finished his glass. “I think you’re gorgeous,” he said out of the blue.

Mycroft stared at him, eyes widening. He had no idea when someone had last said that to him. He shifted in his chair, looking everywhere but at Greg.

“Sorry if I didn’t make that clear before,” Greg added.

“I… oh… well no but… I… thank you,” Mycroft stammered.

“Should I not have said that?” Greg asked.

“No, it’s… wonderful.” He looked back at Greg, his skin heating. “I, of course, return the compliment.” Greg hung his head, embarrassed. “You see,” Mycroft said with a half smile. “You are as terrible at accepting a compliment as I am.”

Greg laughed. “I can’t believe it’s been more than a year since I met Sherlock.”

“More than a year since you were made DI,” Mycroft reminded him. “That is a far more life-changing accomplishment, I assure you.”

Greg laughed. “Yeah, true. It’s been a pretty mad 12 months. So, your promotion. What does it mean for you?”

“Less field work,” Mycroft said. “I expect I will be travelling out of the country more for the Government and less for…” Mycroft sighed. “You know, of course, everything I tell you stays within these walls?”

Greg nodded. “Course. I signed your documents and stuff.”

Mycroft relaxed a little, trusting him more than he’d trusted anyone since he met Anthea. “I will be working less for the Secret Intelligence Service than previously.”

“MI6. You always been six?”

“No,” Mycroft said. “I started at MI5. It was my first job after university.”

“What did you study?” Greg asked.

Mycroft blinked. Greg wasn’t interested in his work? “Law and Classics,” he said.

“Oh, you did a joint?”

“No. I taught myself Classics as a relaxing past-time. What did you study?” Mycroft asked.

“History. I know, I know, cop out subject.”

“Not at all,” Mycroft said. “I never thought you would be interested in it.”

“Well I didn’t know what to do. I wanted to go to uni because I wanted to move out and didn’t know what else to do. I picked history as the best of a bad lot really.”

Mycroft sipped his champagne. “Did you enjoy it?”

“Yeah actually. I wasn’t brilliant at it. But learning about events and stuff that went on… I was crap at analysing it, which was obviously the bit that got you the grades. But I could sit for hours learning about wars and kings and politics and stuff. I didn’t like the reading. But documentaries and lectures… Yeah. You could lecture me all you wanted about the world. It interests me.”

Mycroft smiled, and he was struck again by how often Greg surprised him. The more time they spent together, the less he knew him. He got more fascinating, not less. “You are extraordinary,” he murmured, and if this was friendship, if this was what he was going to accept, then fine. He needed this. For someone to draw him out of his mind and busy life for a while. For someone to make him smile and laugh. “Don’t be embarrassed,” Mycroft said as Greg topped up his champagne.

“I am a bit,” Greg said. “I’m pretty sure no one’s said anything like that about me. And definitely not someone who’s a bloody genius, helps run the Government and the security services and is just… well, good looking too.”

Mycroft smiled, amused. “I don’t run the Government or the security services, Greg.”

“No, but they need you, right? You’re like the cog that keeps everything going.”

Mycroft paused. “As you are in your team,” he said tactfully.

“God I wish. Nothing like having your brother come in to make you feel useless.”

“Sherlock is a very intelligent man. But you have many qualities he doesn’t possess.”

“Like?” Greg asked.

“People like you,” Mycroft said, and he was living proof of that fact. “They respect you, they follow you without question. Sherlock and I can take a look at someone and know everything which ails them. But you, Greg, you actually care to ask. Sherlock has no right to ever make you feel inferior.”

“You never failed him, Mycroft.” Mycroft tensed. No. No, they were not discussing this. “He’s an idiot if he doesn’t see what you’ve done for him,” Greg continued.

“He doesn’t like me, he never has.”

“Then he’s more of an idiot than I thought.”

Greg downed the rest of his glass, and Mycroft could only stare at his throat and the way he licked his lips. Greg got to his feet, giving Mycroft a better look at those jeans again. He eyed him as Greg began to walk around the desk. Mycroft moved his chair back to allow him access, and his whole body ached to touch him. He hoped that was on the cards. He still needed to kiss him again, to taste him when he wasn’t smoking. Already the nicotine stains on his fingers were disappearing.

Greg stood between Mycroft and the table, leaning back against the desk, giving Mycroft free reign to glance at his body. His clothes were not bought in Saville Row, but they suited him and fit his body. And his body was oh-so-appealing. Mycroft sipped his champagne, smiling.“Is there any more of that?” Greg asked.

“Yes.”

“Can we drink it?”

“Yes.”

“After this,” Greg said, lifting his hand. Mycroft caught his breath, his fingers tightening around the glass as the backs of Greg’s fingers brushed against his cheek. One single light touch and his whole body reacted immediately, his heart speeding up and Greg became the only thing besides himself in the room. Greg’s finger traced down his cheek and against Mycroft’s lip and down to his chin. Mycroft swallowed, his eyes fixed on Greg, his body heating up.

Greg took hold of Mycroft’s tie, beginning to unfasten it. Everything was unravelling in Mycroft’s hands. As though he forgot all of his work, his responsibilities and concerns. There was only Greg, undressing him, staring at him through eyes darkened with lust.

“You asked me about what impressed me earlier,” Greg said, a husky edge to his voice. “Did you figure it out?”

“No,” Mycroft admitted, his voice sounding tight to his own ears.

“Honesty. Caring. What you did for that bloke earlier… Mycroft, it was the kindest thing in the world. I don’t care why you did it. The fact you did speaks volumes as far as I’m concerned.”

Caring. No. That was all wrong, because Greg was the one who cared. And Mycroft didn’t care. Anthea had cared. But Mycroft didn’t know how to tell him he was wrong. Greg unfastened the top button of Mycroft’s shirt.

“You’re the extraordinary one,” Greg continued, his eyes full of sincerity. “And you surprise me too. I don’t know why you’ve decided to count me as a friend or why you thought I’d be good to have for sex. But I’m not complaining.” Their eyes met. “And you can have me for as long as you want.”

He sunk down to his knees. He gave too much, Mycroft thought. Oh God, he had to stop giving so much. Mycroft didn’t have anything to say. He was overwhelmed by the compliments and the honesty behind them. And Greg thought he was ‘extraordinary’ and not for his mind but for his actions and for… for what, Mycroft wasn’t certain. All he knew was that he was being taken apart by Greg’s hands on his thighs.

Vulnerability had never felt so acceptable. And he needed it, to be taken away from all the darkness in his world. Didn’t it ever scare this man? he wondered. Didn’t he realise the ways in which Mycroft could destroy his career in 60 seconds?

“Fuck, your legs are perfect,” Greg breathed. "Did you know that?” Mycroft shook his head. His mouth was dry, and he wasn’t sure what he’d say, even if it weren’t. “Well they are. They’re just… your legs are great.” Greg looked up at him. “All of you is great, alright?”

Mycroft nodded slowly, letting Greg gently push his legs apart. “There’s not enough time in the world for the things I want to do to you,” Greg added huskily. “Anything, everything you want. Just say the word.”

Mycroft trembled, putting his glass down on the table. “This… this is fine,” he whispered.

“You’re perfect, you’re perfect,” Greg murmured as he took Mycroft’s shoes off.

And he couldn’t believe that, not for one single second. The things he’d done… the awful, appalling, unacceptable, unforgivable things he’d done… And letting Greg, the kindest, most trustworthy, most honourable man he had ever known into that world made Mycroft feel even worse for it. He was corrupting Greg, tainting his good nature with his lies and his half-truths.

And he had to stop lying to him, he realised. He simply could not do it anymore.

“Can you tell what I’m thinking right now, Mycroft?” Greg asked, pulling him from his thoughts. Mycroft swallowed and shook his head. “I think you’re bloody sexy.” Greg reached for Mycroft’s belt. “Can I?” Mycroft nodded, consent given. “Oh yes,” Greg said as he unfastened it and pulled it free. He placed it down on the floor as he unfastened Mycroft’s trousers.

Mycroft was certain he should say something, or do something other than just sit there.

“It’s okay,” Greg said, smiling softly. “I want to do this. You don’t need to say anything if you don’t want to.”

Mycroft just stayed still, bewildered, wondering how on earth Greg read his mind, wondering how Greg seemed to understand him. He kissed Mycroft’s knee, slowly pulling down the zip. He looked up at Mycroft’s face, their eyes meeting. “I need to kiss you. Is that alright?” Mycroft nodded again.

Greg stood up and touched Mycroft’s face. His skin had never felt more sensitive. Greg kissed the corner of Mycroft’s mouth, and he couldn’t bear for that to be it. He needed more with a desperation he’d never felt before and he wrapped his hand around Greg’s neck to pull him closer. He deepened the kiss, controlling it, leading it. He wanted to possess him.

Mycroft rested one hand on Greg’s backside, squeezing it a little, trying to imagine how it looked. He shifted in his seat, his arousal too tight in his trousers.

Their tongues met and they battled and Greg was happy to retreat. Greg was letting out pleased sounds as they explored each other’s mouths and nibbled each other’s lips.

Everything in the entire world melted away into nothing.

Greg broke the kiss and they shared a breath before Greg dropped down to his knees and told Mycroft to take his trousers off. Mycroft did so, his body acting on its own accord, and he pulled them down along with his boxers. Any shame or embarrassment he could have had were gone when he saw Greg’s delighted smile.

Mycroft sat back down and Greg shuffled between his legs. He wrapped a hand around Mycroft’s cock, and he trembled, his fingers digging into the arm of the chair. Greg wrapped his lips around his length and took him deep.

Mycroft reached out to brush his fingers through Greg’s soft, greying hair. He was consumed by pleasure. Greg’s hands were all over his legs, touching him lightly and more firmly. He was touching places so long neglected by another’s hands.

Greg’s enthusiasm was breathtaking. His lips wrapped around Mycroft’s cock, his stunning brown eyes fixed on Mycroft’s face. His cheeks were flushed and he was groaning almost wantonly around Mycroft’s prick as though he couldn’t get enough. He was mesmerising, exquisite. Like some ethereal creature.

He didn’t belong in Mycroft’s world. He was light and warmth. Mycroft was anything but. And with every flick of his tongue, Mycroft felt as though he was pulling him down into some abyss, destroying every inch of his wonderful humanity.

But he couldn’t… couldn’t stop. Greg’s mouth was so impossibly hot, his lips tight around him. And Mycroft saw white lights behind his eyes, pleasure spreading into every nerve. Mycroft touched Greg’s cheek to warn him he was close, but Greg only sucked harder around him.

Mycroft dropped his head against the back of his chair, trying not to arch up. So close to a release he needed he just… oh… And he came and all he saw was light, his head spinning with the intensity of it all. He shut his eyes, blocking out the fact that anything existed except Greg and himself. He panted and Greg stroked his legs, his hands soothing against Mycroft’s over-sensitised skin.

Mycroft stroked his hair, gently touching his forehead. He finally opened his eyes, gazing down at him. “Thank you,” he said, touching Greg’s temple.

“No need,” Greg replied, smiling. He stood up and kissed above Mycroft’s mouth, leaving Mycroft silently seeking more. But Greg walked around the desk and re-took his seat and Mycroft hurriedly pulled his clothes on, his body still shaking.

Mycroft took hold of his phone, his hand trembling. “I would like the car immediately,” he said. “The Coeur de Lion Offices, if you please. Thank you.” He glanced at Greg. “I thought we might share the last bottle of champagne at my flat. If you would like?”

“Yeah,” Greg murmured. “Yeah, I’d really like.”

Mycroft stood up, taking a deep breath before walking out of his office, listening to the sound of Greg’s footsteps behind him. He wandered into Anthea’s office. It smelt vaguely of the bunch of lilies on the desk and of her perfume. He found a second bottle of champagne beside a small envelope with his name written on it. Frowning, he opened it and took out the card.

_Dear Mycroft,_

_Have a wonderful evening. I intend to have a wonderful week off._

_Do be on your best behaviour, don’t touch the calendar and please don’t try to rearrange your files._

_I will see you in a week._

_Anthea._

Mycroft rolled his eyes and threw the note away. He was quite capable of looking after his affairs for a week, he thought. But as he stepped out and saw Greg stood there, he thought he might need to reassess that opinion. Because this was an affair he wasn’t in control of. In fact, worse than that, he was losing control over it by the second.

He led him out of the building and down to the car, glad it was Jim Braum working and no one else. Jim never asked questions.

Mycroft smiled at him as they got in, and he turned to watch out of the window, jumping as Greg’s hand came to rest on his thigh. Mycroft smiled, his breath catching as Greg’s thumb began to rub against his leg.

Mycroft led him up the stairs to his flat, letting him in. Mycroft ignored him as he wandered to the kitchen, trying to assess the situation and work out what they should do next. He took his jacket and waistcoat off, hanging them on the back of the chair. He toed his shoes off before beginning to uncork the bottle.

He smiled to himself as Greg stepped into the room, pressing up behind him and kissing the back of his neck. Mycroft tilted his head to grant him access, letting his eyes fall closed as Greg’s soft lips touched behind his ear and all those sensitive parts of his neck. And all too soon, Greg was taking a champagne glass and carrying it out to the living room.

Mycroft took one long sip of his champagne before joining him on the settee. He dropped his hand onto Greg’s knee, the alcohol bolstering his confidence. He had no second thoughts, not at that moment.

Greg initiated the first kiss, each one short and not enough. Their glasses ended up on the table as they continued to share the tender touches. And then Greg all but pounced, kissing him with fire and heat.

Mycroft matched him with equal fervour, it igniting arousal in him again, more intensely than before. Greg eased him down onto his back and straddled his hips and Mycroft took the opportunity to stroke Greg’s chest under his shirt, finally feeling the chest hair he’d seen hints off. His body was warm and firm, so very much the body Mycroft had always wished he’d had.

Greg made quick work of unbuttoning some of Mycroft’s shirt, leaning down to kiss his skin. Mycroft could only arch up, unbuckling his belt.

Greg had to stand up to pull his jeans off and Mycroft stared at him, enthralled. Greg took up his previous position, and Mycroft unfastened Greg’s shirt, desperate to see him. Greg groaned, the sound loud in the silent room. Mycroft searched his chest with his lips, drawing his nipple between them, learning him, committing him to memory.

He pushed Greg down onto the chair, trailing kisses everywhere he could reach. Greg pulled him up into another kiss. They got lost in one another, kissing as though their lives depended on it as Greg pulled down Mycroft’s trousers and underwear, and Mycroft eased him out his boxes.

Their cocks aligned between their bodies, their hands meeting to wrap around their lengths as they kissed. They worked as one, their minds seemingly connected.

The kisses lost their fire, but never the heat as they searched and explored and devoured. Time ceased to matter. Mycroft drowned in the taste and smell of him.

His orgasm took him by surprise and he shuddered, biting down on Greg’s shoulder, his whole body shuddering under the intensity of it. He squeezed Greg’s cock and closed his eyes as the other man came, messy over their joined hands.

Mycroft buried his face into Greg’s neck, breathing in his aftershave. Greg’s arm came to wrap around him. Mycroft hesitated then relaxed.

He let himself be held.

With his eyes closed, he allowed himself to relax. He felt cared for, appreciated. Wanted.

Mycroft kissed his neck, savouring him. Well, it was all going to end at some point, that was inevitable. And he needed to take some time to think this through. But Greg was holding him so protectively, easing away his concerns. Stop thinking, he commanded himself, and it was easy to do. He was wrapped up Greg, and it was… easy.

Too easy. 

Mycroft swallowed and sat up with a start, frowning a little as he wiped himself clean and re-dressed. He offered Greg a handkerchief, taking a long swig of his champagne.

“You alright?” Greg asked.

“Yes.” Mycroft forced a smile as Greg’s hand rubbed the back of his neck. It rested there, affectionate but not pressuring.

“That was amazing,” Greg said with a wistful smile.

Mycroft glanced at him, almost smiling at his content expression. “Mm, it was. Are you okay?” he asked.

“Yeah, I’m great.”

Mycroft nodded and rested his head on Greg’s shoulder, pledging to enjoy this for a while. He relaxed, Greg’s cheek pressing against his head. They sat there, bathing in the afterglow.

And all too soon Greg said he should go. Mycroft told him he’d call the car for him. Greg kissed him again, slowly and sweetly as though it sealed a deal.

“Talk to you soon then, mate,” Greg said with a casual grin, as though they hadn’t just been doing far more than a friendship entailed.

“See you very soon,” Mycroft replied, resenting how much he longed for him to stay. He bit his bottom lip as the door closed. He found himself staring at the two half-empty glasses of champagne on the table, wondering how on earth he was going to put a stop to all of this.


	16. Protect And Destroy

**May 2006.**

**Location: Whitehall, London.**

“To the matter at hand,” the British Europe Minister said, passing some paperwork around to the men at the table. “I think this should all be fairly straight forward, but just so we’re clear. We’re recognising Montenegro as a new country.” He glanced at Mycroft. “Yes?”

Mycroft nodded. “Yes. The vote was held yesterday, and by all accounts, it was close. But 55 per cent of people voted in favour of independence. As long as we officially recognise its new status, we can pass on the recommendation to the Prime Minister who can then congratulate the new Government.”

“That’s fine,” one of the diplomats said.

Another nodded. “Good with me.”

“I assume there’s protocol for this kind of thing?” another asked.

Mycroft frowned. “What do you mean?”

“Well. I may be wrong. But I was under the impression we couldn’t recognise a state’s independence until they had officially separated.”

“They’ve had a vote,” Mycroft said. “They have 60 days to officially…” He frowned as the men around the table turned to him, as though he was some sort of oracle. “Oh no,” he muttered. “Really? This is the simplest matter we’re supposed to be discussing.”

“But the Parliament hasn’t officially declared its independence yet.”

“Well. Well, no, that’s true. It hasn’t. But I hasten to add that Croatia and the European Union’s policy chief have already sent their congratulations. As has the United States of America. We’re beginning to appear unkind.”

“But they’ve not announced it.”

“The vote was legal, they reached the threshold for voter turn-out,” Mycroft said. “All that remains is for the Assembly of the Republic of Montenegro to declare Independence.”

“I’m not voting on this until that happens. A Slovakian diplomat told me that we should wait.”

Mycroft stared at him. “Please tell me you’re joking.”

“I’m not joking.”

The British Europe Minister shrugged. “Then it’s not carried.”

Mycroft stared at them all. “The Council of Europe is already preparing a statement to recognise the new country. If we don’t make a declaration soon, we could be the only country in the world not to recognise the new state.” They all continued to watch him. “Fine,” he muttered. “Fine. I will double-check the protocol. In the meantime, when the newspapers begin to wonder what the problem is, I will refer them directly to you.”

He slammed the door to his office when he got back. Anthea followed him in seconds later. “That took longer than I expected,” she said.

“It’s ridiculous,” Mycroft said, tossing his umbrella onto the floor. “They’re all idiots. Every last one of them. We’ve been working on this for months. And months. And on the day we go to finally recognise the new state, then suddenly, it’s a concern. They couldn’t have brought it up last week?” He rolled his eyes. “Good God, Anthea. Am I really the only intelligent person in this entire city?”

“The whole country probably. You’re running late for your next meeting.”

Mycroft groaned. “Please don’t tell me.”

“More talks with America over Iran.”

“It’s a waste of my time.”

“Not if it stops us all being blown up by nuclear weapons.”

Mycroft tutted. “How very droll.”

“I learned from the best, sir.” Anthea handed him his papers. “Straight afterwards, I need you to come back here for a phone meeting with the Prime Minister.”

“I see. Is there any time in my schedule for lunch today?”

“No.”

“Wonderful. And Sherlock?”

“Appearing at various crime scenes.”

“Well, that’s something I suppose.”

Anthea smiled at him. “The day can only get better, sir.”

“I wouldn’t count on it,” Mycroft muttered as he left his office again.

* * *

**June 2006.**

**Location: Crusader House, Pall Mall, London.**

Mycroft knew Greg was coming round to talk about Hadrian Kirkcudbright. They’d discussed the meeting via email earlier that day. In truth, Mycroft was looking forward to spending some time in his company, though he tried to pretend otherwise, especially to himself.

Earlier that evening, he’d sat out on the balcony on one of the chairs, nursing a coffee as he enjoyed the blue skies and the slight breeze. He kept the doors open, letting some much-needed air into his flat. He sat in his chair beside the fire, reading through some MI5 intelligence documents on his laptop when he heard the door open. He looked up, closing it down.

Greg smiled. “Hi. Thanks for seeing me.” Greg walked to the balcony, staring outside.

“I took the liberty of ordering us Chinese,” Mycroft informed him, watching him, wondering when he became so comfortable in Mycroft's home that he could just stroll out onto the balcony as though he belonged there.

“That sounds great. I’m starving.”

Mycroft smiled. “I’ll fetch you the beer I promised. Unless you would prefer something else?”

“No, beer’s great,” Greg said. Mycroft went to the kitchen, taking out a bottle of beer Anthea had recommended, and pouring himself a glass of red wine. He took a deep breath before carrying them out.

“The food should be here shortly,” Mycroft told him. “So, tell me. How can I be of assistance?” He returned to his chair, keeping a respectable distance between the two of them. They were discussing work, and therefore, keeping their sex and conversation separate seemed appropriate. 

“Me and Sherlock have been looking at the Kirkcudbright case. And the one line of enquiry we never followed through originally was the work angle. A guy like that must have had enemies. Any assistance you can offer…”

“Hadrian Kirkcudbright had enemies all over the world,” Mycroft said, deciding he would not give access to that line of enquiry. “He knew things I am not at liberty to disclose. It’s beyond your clearance.”

“Even after I signed those papers?”

“Even after. I am terribly sorry, I’m afraid I can’t be of much help. He was not killed by someone he worked for or with.”

“How do you know?” Greg asked.

“Trust me,” Mycroft said. Mycroft stood up at the knock on the door, walking over to the collect their food. He’d hardly noticed how hungry he was until he had the bags in hand and was carrying them through to the kitchen.

They sat at the table together, Mycroft opening the boxes. Now the matter of Hadrian was out of the way, Mycroft was at a loss for what to say. He didn’t do this. This… friend business.

He paused for a moment, considering what he could tell Greg about the case. “He was well-liked at work,” he finally said. “He wasn’t a generous man but he impressed his colleagues.”

“You liked him?”

“Yes. I liked the work he did. He was good at it. I wish I could be of assistance.”

“It’s alright. I shouldn’t have expected you to just tell me everything.”

Mycroft nodded, eating his food in silence for a while. He glanced at Greg’s hands, where the cigarette stains had got even more faint. He frowned. “How long have you given up for?”

“Given up what?”

“Smoking.”

“Oh. As long as Sherlock stays off the drugs.”

Mycroft paused, considering it. Well, that was a technique he hadn’t tried before, he supposed. He didn't imagine it would work. Sherlock didn't really care what other people did, and he had no reason to respect Greg so much that Greg's avoidance of cigarettes would allow Sherlock to stay on a drug-free path. But it was a curious challenge. 

“You okay?” Greg asked, pulling him out of his thoughts.

“Yes, of course.” Greg tilted his head. “It’s nothing,” Mycroft murmured.

“What’s nothing?” Greg asked.

Mycroft sighed. “A minor crisis made worse by a Slovakian diplomat.”

“Did you sort it out?” Greg asked.

“Barely,” Mycroft said.

“What happened?”

“How much do you know about the Montenegrin independence referendum?”

Greg almost snorted in amusement. “There’s an independence referendum?” he asked.

Mycroft smiled, watching him. He looked genuinely interested, as though he really cared about the ridiculous things that took place in Mycroft’s life. He found he really did want to share it, to try to give something in return for all the help he’d given to Sherlock.

Mycroft offered to return to the living room, and he found Greg another bottle of beer. He took hold of the pint glass in Greg’s hand, and rested his fingers against Greg’s as he poured. He savoured the touch, because all too soon he was pulling away.

Greg sat down on the settee, grinning at him as Mycroft returned to his own seat, wine in hand.

“So. The referendum,” Greg prompted.

Mycroft frowned. “You’re truly interested?”

“Yeah, I am. I want to know what happens in your life. So. Day in the life of Mycroft Holmes. Go.”

Mycroft chuckled. “Some background, I feel, is appropriate.” He opened his mouth to speak, but could only stare as Greg kicked his shoes off, stretching his body along the settee. He seemed so relaxed. Relaxed in Mycroft’s company. It was… odd.

“Serbia and Montenegro was, until yesterday, a country formed from the two remaining republics of Yugoslavia, following its break-up in 1992,” Mycroft explained. “It was a federation, and later, three years ago, became a state union. The Montenegrin independence referendum has now been held, and the public voted in favour of independence, to each become separate states. I explained to you how my work was diverging into international matters?” Mycroft asked.

“Yeah, you did,” Greg said.

Mycroft nodded. “The process, of course, has not been a simple one. I and a few others have been working alongside the British Europe Minister to ensure it is held correctly and legally, to allow an easy transition if independence was the preferred choice of the electorate. You understand, that if it was to become a new state, the rest of the world must recognise it. The rest of the world must, therefore, recognise its elections to have been legal.”

Greg nodded. “Sure, I get that.”

“The referendum was narrowly-won in favour of independence.”

“Where did you get involved?”

“The country of Montenegro has yet to be recognised because it is yet to formally announce its independence.”

“Why’s it taking so long?”

Mycroft smiled. “At the heart of the matter is a comment from a diplomat, made both in error and stupidity. And someone has to clean up the mess before Montenegro formally announces its independence and the United Kingdom is incapable of recognising it.”

“Some mess,” Greg muttered.

“Quite,” Mycroft agreed. “The specifics of it are-”

“-Classified, I know-”

“-Dull,” Mycroft said.

Greg laughed. “Dull?”

Mycroft smiled. “Yes. I can tell you if you’d like, but it’s tedious. I’m sure I have much better stories.”

“I think what you do is pretty interesting.”

Mycroft gazed at him, relaxing into his own chair. “You don’t know the half of it.”

“Nah, maybe not. Hey, you’ve never organised a hit, have you?”

Mycroft chuckled, but it was through nerves more than anything. If Sherlock had said or hinted… “What did Sherlock say now?” he asked.

Greg grinned. “I think he reckons you’re running the whole country single-handedly.”

“Ridiculous,” Mycroft smiled.

“So, when you’ve solved the crisis of Montenegro. What’s next?”

“I’m not sure. I can be juggling two or three items or 30 simultaneously, one day to the next.”

“Anthea’s pretty important then?” Greg asked.

“Crucial,” Mycroft confirmed.

“Where’d you meet her?”

“I’m afraid I can’t divulge that information.”

Greg grinned. “I’m getting used to that.” Greg glanced at his watch. “I should probably be off. I’ve got an early start tomorrow. We’ve tracked down a suspect for one of those cold cases I gave Sherlock.”

“I’m glad he’s been helpful.”

“Yeah, me too.” Greg stood up, giving Mycroft a fraction of a second to admire his body. “Well, goodnight. Have a good day tomorrow, don’t start any wars or anything.”

Mycroft laughed. “I assure you, that is the least of my concerns.”

Greg laughed. “It worries me that I almost believe that’s true. Don’t be a stranger, yeah?”

Mycroft smiled tightly at him, sipping his wine as the door closed. The smile dropped off his face as he pondered whether he had got what he had wanted from their exchange. It bothered him that he lost all sense of order when it came to Greg Lestrade.

* * *

When Anthea walked into his office in the following evening, she’d changed into a glamorous black dress, her hair tied up and earrings sparkling. Mycroft frowned at her. “Did I miss something?” he asked.

“No,” she said, smiling. “But if you don’t need me, I will be leaving in half an hour.”

“Are you going to anything nice?” Mycroft asked.

“An exhibition at the Royal Academy Of Arts. It’s an evening function with champagne and royal guests.”

Mycroft nodded. “Have a good time.” He paused and looked at her. “Who are you going with?”

“I don’t think that’s relevant.”

Mycroft frowned. “Anthea. Sit.”

She rolled her eyes, pulling up the chair and crossing her legs. “What?” she asked.

“Your boyfriend.”

“What about him?”

“I know you don’t think it’s relevant for me to know who he is, but I know the relationship history of every other member of staff. I need to know who he is.”

“Why?” she asked. “We don’t know anything about your personal life.” Mycroft raised his eyebrows and she sighed. “Fine,” she conceded. “I know a little bit about your personal life. I know it comes in the form of a rather attractive Detective Inspector. But, honestly, he’s fine.”

“Who is he?” Mycroft asked, preferring to ignore her not-so-subtle comments regarding Greg.

“You don’t need to know.”

“Yes. I do.”

Anthea swallowed, not meeting his eyes. “He’s called Arnou Fortier.”

Mycroft nodded, watching her. “Where is he from?”

“France.”

“What does he do?”

“He’s a sculptor.”

Mycroft nodded. “I see. This time, Anthea, when I ask the question I’d prefer it if you didn’t lie to me. What does he do?”

“He is a sculptor.”

“And?”

Anthea paused, inspecting her nails. “And he works for the General Directorate For External Security in France,” she added, her voice casual as though that was nothing to worry about. “Sometimes. Mostly he sculpts.”

Mycroft watched her, frowning. “What aren’t you telling me?”

“I’m telling you everything. Even though I shouldn’t because his work is as secret as ours and…” She sighed, staring down at her hands. “I’m sorry.”

“For what?”

She bit her lip and stared across at him. “I don’t think this is any of your business.”

“I know you don’t. But it is. Anthea, what aren’t you telling me?”

“Arnou Fortier is his name now. But when I met him.” Anthea frowned. “When I met him, he went by another name.”

“What was it?”

“Safiy Nazari.”

Mycroft narrowed his eyes at her. “Please tell me that’s a coincidence.”

“Our paths crossed again six months ago,” she said. “I was with… a man. Another man I was seeing. We went to the Tate Modern. There was an exhibition opening with these beautiful sculptures. I saw him there. We spoke. A little.”

Mycroft sat back in his chair, staring at her. “You can’t see him.”

She shook her head. “I’m not your child. You can’t tell me who I can and can’t see.”

“Anthea, that man tried to kill you.”

“But he didn’t,” she said pointing at him. “And we’ve discussed it and… Well, he doesn’t want to kill me now.”

Mycroft raised his eyebrows. “Oh, well, I suppose that makes it okay.”

“It is okay.”

“He has double-crossed at least two separate security services as far as I can see. He’s a liability and untrustworthy.”

“He’s also done a lot of good, and you know he has,” Anthea pointed out and Mycroft knew he had to concede that point. “I’m only alive now because of him. Because he told them I was dead.”

“He’s a target. If anyone gets a whiff that you’re still alive…”

“I have a new identity. They never saw my face. Jean Loy is dead, she’s buried in Southampton. You saw to that. The age on my passport isn’t even my real age. Mr Holmes. I trust him with my life. He has integrity and loyalty. Yes, he went to kill me but… He’s never killed anyone.”

“That doesn’t make him a good man, Anthea,” Mycroft said softly.

“I know. But this is our world, isn’t it? I trust him. And I would never share anything about my work with him, I promise.”

Mycroft sighed. “Anthea. It isn’t you spilling secrets that I’m worried about.”

“Meet with him.”

“I’d rather not have him know who I am. I don’t trust him.”

Anthea nodded. “I know this is hard to accept.”

“It’s impossible to accept,” he replied, watching her.

She swallowed and nodded. “He could have killed me that day. Do you know what he did instead?”

Mycroft shook his head. “No.”

“He gave me the names of those men who tried to bomb that aeroplane leaving Heathrow even though he had wanted to give the information to the CIA himself. And then you and Hugh Seagroves and the CIA foiled the plot and brought them to justice, do you remember?”

Mycroft nodded. “I do.”

“It wasn’t because of my investigation that we knew about that. It was Arnou. At great personal risk and cost. He isn’t… I know that he’s not a good person. But can any of us say that we are?”

Mycroft frowned and held her eyes. “No,” he finally murmured, glancing down at his desk. “No, none of us can say that we are. Please look after yourself.”

“I will,” she said, standing up. “I promise.”

“Have a lovely evening.”

“I’ll try. I hate art exhibitions.” They both looked at each other and laughed, and Mycroft smiled as he watched her leave. He turned to his computer, and began to find out what he didn’t already know about the man calling himself Arnou Fortier.

* * *

It was only days later when Sherlock sent Mycroft a very brief message to say Greg had begun to smoke again. Mycroft frowned and logged onto Watchtower to read through the cases the Metropolitan Police had been dealing with.

There was a dead child, and Greg had been leading the case. Mycroft paused, wondering what he could do. Sherlock had told him for a reason, probably because he thought Mycroft had reason to be concerned. Greg wasn’t a stupid man, but like Mycroft, he was liable to press a self-destruct button. He was liable to lock himself away, pretending he was fine. Mycroft knew as well as anyone that it wasn’t always a good idea to do that, no matter how safe it felt.

And anyway. After the way Greg had taken care of him at the hospital, he owed the man a favour. Perhaps, he thought, if he could return the comfort Greg had offered him then they would be even. Perhaps then, they could draw a line under their association.

And so he asked Malcolm to drive him to Greg’s flat, fidgeting with his umbrella as he stood wondering what he was going to do once he got there. Greg was an expert at appearing sympathetic and saying the right thing. Mycroft wasn’t convinced he possessed those same skills.

He knocked on the door, and held up a bottle of scotch as Greg answered it. There was a faint smell of cigarette smoke coming from the room, and he looked exhausted, stood in a pair of shorts and a t-shirt.

“You didn’t have to,” Greg mumbled as Mycroft walked in, carrying the drink to the kitchen.

“Nonsense. Sherlock told me you had a cigarette. He was quite unimpressed, I assure you.” Mycroft checked his cupboards, instinctively straightening his mugs and moving a fork in the drawer so it shared a home with the other forks and not with the knives. He poured Greg a drink and carried it out, sitting down on the settee opposite. “I’m sorry, Greg,” he said, studying him.

“Just need to catch them.”

Mycroft nodded, gazing at him as Greg stared down at his knees. Mycroft assessed his exhausted eyes, his shoulders slumped as though he carried the weight of the universe of them. Mycroft had nothing to offer him. Not a comforting word that it would be alright - because it wouldn’t be. The child was dead, and no hoping or wishing would change that. Nor a touch on his shoulder, or a close embrace. And he wasn’t sure he knew how to initiate those things, even if he wanted to. And so he was forced to watch the spectacle in front of him. A broken man, down on his luck, without a wife or husband to pull him through it. A broken man with no real friends except Mycroft Holmes, who wasn’t convinced he wanted to be one of those either.

Mycroft had nothing to offer except his mind, and that would have to be enough. “If you need me to look over the case, ask,” Mycroft finally said.

“And what are you going to do about it, Mycroft?” Greg snapped. “Take it off me? I’m not that fucking incompetent.”

Mycroft paused. Oh. “That isn’t what I-”

“-What are you doing here?”

Mycroft swallowed, taking a second to compose himself. “I heard about your case. I knew it must have affected you.”

“You and your bloody deductions,” Greg muttered, and the comment hurt a little bit. It was all he had when it came to social interaction. He wasn’t like Anthea. He didn’t understand what he could say to make it easier. Mycroft continued to watch him. Greg didn’t appear to know what he wanted either. He had no idea how to help himself. “Sorry,” Greg said. “I’m just…”

“I know,” Mycroft said gently, sipping his drink.

“When it’s a kid, it’s worse.”

Mycroft nodded. “What can I do?” he asked, silently willing Greg to give him a job or a task or anything practical or useful to do.

“Nothing. There’s nothing. It’s just a case me and my team need to solve. Just like every other case.” Greg looked up at him. Their eyes met, tension coming over them. It felt as though dark oppressive clouds had lowered above their heads, the humidity rising… “Is this a friendly visit? Or is this a sex visit? I need to know the difference, because I don’t want to make things awkward.”

Mycroft raised his eyebrows. “I didn’t-”

“-I know. I’ve had a really shit day, Mycroft. And you’re here in that suit. With scotch. And to be honest, I’m not really good company right now if you’re here on a friendly visit.”

Mycroft nodded. “I understand.”

“I’m a bit drunk, I won’t lie.”

“I know.”

Greg was watching him, his eyes dark. He licked his lips. “And I really want you right now.”

Mycroft held his eyes, his heart beginning to race, his cock beginning to stir. He wanted to resist more than anything in the world. But he didn’t know how. Greg Lestrade was turning into his one and only weakness. The one thing he didn’t know how to say no to. The one thing he didn’t want to say no to. And what he would give, for Greg’s lips on his own. And what he would give up, to have Greg’s mouth on his neck, on his jaw, whispering sweet nothings in his ear.

And it was unnerving, just how much he was prepared to sacrifice for a few hours of foolhardiness. His own self-control. His own self-protection. He’d give up the things about himself that he needed to get him through the day. Everything he used to preserve himself from hurt, from the horrible, awful things that human beings did to one other every single day.

The horrible, awful things that he’d done to human beings throughout his life.

And Greg wanted him, and perhaps he was weak, perhaps he was powerless to his own desires, but he nodded. “As do I,” he breathed out, not regretting those three words one iota. All he wanted was Greg as he stood up, so fragile himself. And Mycroft needed this. The welcome distraction, the perfect release.

“Take your tie off,” Greg said firmly. Mycroft felt himself get harder, his whole body screaming out to say no, because he didn’t take orders. He was in control, he was in control… but he couldn’t be. He was losing every ounce of dominance he’d ever had over Greg. Greg had ground him down, reduced him to becoming just a man. A lonely, weak man with a brother he could never do enough for, a family he couldn’t do right by, and two dead former partners and a third who wouldn’t speak to him.

But he loosened his tie. He loosened it because he wanted Greg to make him feel right again. To touch him and make him feel wanted and accepted, even if underneath his suit and his fancy cars and expensive offices, he was just a man. Just a man.

“And the jacket,” Greg added.

Mycroft slid it from his shoulders, and he put it down on the side of the chair. He was curious about how far Greg would go. He could see how aroused he was, the way he rocked on his toes a little, licked his lips.

“Waistcoat.”

Mycroft unfastened it and took it off. He folded it. He held Greg’s eyes. He put it down on top of the jacket.

“Oh fuck,” Greg breathed out. He strode over, straddling Mycroft’s lap and Mycroft wrapped an arm around him to secure him there, sliding under his shirt to feel his back. Their mouths met and Mycroft slid a hand into Greg’s hair, kissing back with no restraint. He’d become educated in the ways to make Greg gasp, all the ways to nibble his lip, but it was definitely not over-familiar. On the contrary, it made him want him more. It made him want to give Greg the best night of his life, to show him just how well he knew him. It was almost a challenge in itself, and it was the most pleasurable challenge there could ever be.

Mycroft brushed his nails against Greg’s back, their hips rocking together. Greg groaned into Mycroft’s mouth and they pressed their tongues together, tasting. Mycroft took hold of one of Greg’s hips, pulling him closer so he could kiss down his neck and nibble his earlobe. He pushed his hand down under the waistband of his shorts. He wrapped his hand around his length, finding him desperately hard.

Greg kissed him again, pressing into Mycroft’s hand while he stroked him, rubbing his thumb against in the head in the way he knew Greg liked.

Greg kissed like his life depended it, like he was trying to erase his bad memories and images. He bit down on Mycroft’s lip and Mycroft hissed a bit. “Shit, sorry,” Greg whispered. “My fault.”

Mycroft kissed him softly, trying to ease him a little. “It’s fine,” he whispered, kissing along Greg’s jaw and nuzzling his neck. “It’s fine.”

“Don’t stop.”

Mycroft shook his head. “I won’t.” Greg pulled Mycroft’s shirt free of his trousers and Mycroft watched him, catching his breath. Mycroft pulled him into another heady kiss. He felt dizzy. Like the world was spinning, and the only thing stopping him from falling off it was Greg’s mouth against his.

He searched Greg’s body with his hands, stroking his chest through his t-shirt. He pinched his nipple, relishing in how Greg shuddered against him.

“Bed,” Greg breathed out and Mycroft pulled his hand free of Greg’s shorts. He stared at him, panting. He couldn’t imagine where it would go next or what would happen, but he was willing to let Greg lead. Just this once. Greg held his hand out and Mycroft took it. He squeezed Greg’s hand, his eyes skimming over his back and his backside and bare legs as he was led to the door.

Greg turned to him. He looked so certain. So focused. As though all he needed in the world was Mycroft. As though he was the only thing that could keep him tethered to the ground and stop him from drowning in a sea of painful thoughts.

They stepped towards each other, almost as though they’d read each other’s minds. Mycroft took Greg’s face in his hands and Greg rested one hand on Mycroft’s backside, squeezing it. Mycroft kissed him, deeply and slowly before wrapping his arms around his waist. He pushed Greg back until he was pressed flush against the wall, and Mycroft silently promised to give him everything he needed. He promised to give him the escape and distance from the world.

He pushed Greg’s shorts and boxers down, wrapping a hand around his cock. They kissed as Greg undid Mycroft’s trousers and pushed his hand inside, taking hold of Mycroft’s length. Mycroft’s lips were tender from so much kissing, but he couldn’t dream of pulling away. Greg drew him in with every groan, his sweet, delicious surrender was oh so beautiful.

Mycroft trailed his lips down Greg’s neck, tasting his skin. He licked and bit, and he stroked his cock, squeezing and changing the pressure.

They kissed again. The finesse was gone. It was hot and wet and needy. Mycroft felt it, right in his toes as he got close. He trembled as Greg came over Mycroft’s hand. It was so arousing to feel him let go, and just moments later, Mycroft followed him, closing his eyes and burying his face in Greg’s neck.

Greg’s arms wound around him, preventing his knees from buckling. Mycroft held him back, trying to get his breathing under control. He felt his cheeks pink as he imagined how they would look, both with their cocks hanging out, their trousers and shorts around their ankles, having not even managed to make it to the bed.

“So, we didn’t exactly make it to bed,” Greg mumbled, if anything, holding Mycroft even tighter. Mycroft allowed himself to enjoy it for a few moments. The warmth, their breathing. He lifted his head and they kissed, so softly. Tender and kind.

Mycroft reluctantly stepped away, using his pocket handkerchief to wipe his hand before dressing. “How are you?” Mycroft asked.

“Like I could probably sleep,” Greg said. “So. Thanks. I didn’t think I ever would.”

Mycroft gazed at him for a moment before walking back to the sofa, sitting down. Greg sat beside him, their thighs pressing together.

“What happened to make this case so awful?” Mycroft asked him.

“It’s a kid.”

“No, I mean, what happened to you?” He was curious, but now he knew him so well, he thought looking up his files seemed invasive.

“Nothing,” Greg said, obviously lying.

“You’ve never lied to me before, Greg. Let’s not start now, shall we?” Mycroft asked. He kept watching as Greg stared down at his knees.

“Fine. There’s stuff. But I can’t talk about it.”

“Have you ever spoken about it?” Mycroft asked.

“No. I mean, people know about it.”

“Your colleagues,” Mycroft said, watching him.

“And Caroline.” Mycroft nodded, wondering how he’d ended up meeting someone who kept their cards as close to their chest as he did. “Look, it was years ago, alright? It was a case, it bothered me, I took some time off, I got over it.”

“Evidently not.”

“Stuff happens to people,” Greg said, his voice quiet. “It’s not always good stuff.”

Mycroft nodded. Oh he could sympathise with that. “Mm.”

Greg rubbed his face, and Mycroft glanced at him, wishing he knew what to do to make him feel better. Wishing he could reach for him and hold him, knowing that he just… couldn’t.

“I’m alright,” Greg said.

“Very well. I should leave.”

“Alright.”

Mycroft bit his lip. “Will you be okay?” he asked, hoping he sounded caring rather than inquisitive.

Greg nodded. “Yeah.”

Mycroft stood up and collected his clothes. He dressed slowly and purposely, so he could leave feeling as though he hadn’t lost all control. He turned to Greg, studying his worn eyes. He longed to reach out and cup his face and kiss his forehead. It made his chest clench uncomfortably. “Sleep in your bed, Greg. Not on the sofa, you’ll give yourself a bad back.” Greg frowned at him. “You always sleep on the sofa when you’re miserable,” Mycroft explained, smiling at him.

“How the hell do you know these things?”

“Goodnight,” Mycroft murmured, walking for the door.

“Yeah. Night.”

Mycroft reached the door. He wanted to turn back, kiss him, hold him, take him to bed. He couldn’t.

“What?” Greg asked.

Mycroft clenched his jaw. “This cannot continue,” he said, resolved to his decision.

“What can’t?”

“Our… arrangement.”

“For God’s sake. And why is that, exactly?”

Mycroft paused, searching for a suitable excuse. “It is affecting our working relationship.”

“What working relationship? We don’t work together.”

Mycroft turned round to face him, knowing he didn’t have an excuse he could say aloud. “It will bother Sherlock.”

“You breathing bothers Sherlock. What’s really the problem?”

He was terrified. Greg’s touch made him feel so scared, and he didn’t know how to accept someone’s hand against his arm, or lips against his cheek. But it was more than that. He wanted it, in ways he hadn’t wanted anything since he could remember. “I haven’t had sex with anyone for five years,” Mycroft said, as though that would explain it all.

“Well, I haven’t had sex with a bloke in nearly 20 years. What’s the problem?”

“You said so yourself, Greg. The lines between friendship and sex are blurred.”

“No they’re not. It’s not like we’re falling asleep together.”

Mycroft frowned at him. “I’m using you, Greg. I have no desire to become emotionally intimate.”

“That’s fine, because I’m using you too,” Greg said. And that hurt more than Mycroft liked.

He swallowed. “Very well,” Mycroft murmured.

“Very well what?”

“If you want to see me, you only need to ask,” Mycroft murmured, and God, no, that wasn’t what he wanted to say at all but then Greg was agreeing with him and… “I won’t always be able to accept,” Mycroft added.

“Neither will I,” Greg said.

“So, that’s settled.”

“Yup.”

Mycroft touched the door handle. “I will be in contact.”

Greg nodded. “Good. Me too.”

“Goodnight, Greg.”

“Night.”

Mycroft turned and walked out of Greg’s flat. He shut the door behind him and leaned against the wall, rubbing his face. No, he thought. No, no, no. All wrong. It was all very, very, very wrong.

It all felt very right.


	17. On Target

**June 2006.**

**Location: Crusader House, Pall Mall, London.**

Despite the variety of matters Mycroft attended to, he wasn’t in the habit of being woken up in the early hours of the morning. If something urgent occurred during the night, it went through three members of staff: Milburn Barturen and Joshua Kaner took the night shift on alternate days. If a red alert appeared on Watchtower, their first point of call was Anthea’s assistant Loretta Freeman. Loretta would then make contact with Anthea, who in turn would call Mycroft under very specific circumstances. By the time he dressed and got to his front door, Jim Braum would already be there. As his most trusted driver, he was the man Mycroft relied upon when he was called to work for something resembling an emergency.

So, it was when Mycroft was woken at gone 3am and Anthea warned him ‘it might be nothing’, he was certain the protocols had not been followed. He was only to be woken when it was ‘something’. But since he was now awake, he showered and dressed anyway.

Jim was hanging out of the car window, smoking. “Heard it wasn’t anything?” he called out as Mycroft shut the front door. “Anthea said, ‘probably nothing’ but go get the boss anyway.”

Mycroft shook his head. “Goodness knows,” he muttered, getting into the back of the car. Usually he would read a newspaper, but even they hadn’t been delivered to the Coeur de Lion Offices yet. He checked the news on his phone, finding nothing remarkable there. There was nothing on the Watchtower reports to indicate anything had happened either.

“Have you heard anything at all?” Mycroft asked.

“Nope,” Jim replied. “I never ask.”

Mycroft frowned as he realised they weren’t driving to Mayfair. “Where on earth are we going?”

“Anthea didn’t tell you?”

Mycroft shook his head. “No. Why?”

“All she told me was to get you to the National Archives at Kew. Do you want to go to the office?”

“No. No, it’s fine, I’m sure she has a perfectly good reason.”

When he arrived at the archives, there were a few police cars outside. He strode past them, meeting Anthea at the front doors. “Please tell me there’s a good reason for this,” he muttered as they made their way through the revolving doors.

“You know, of course, that the archives keep copies of Cabinet papers and Home Office records,” she said, leading him through to an office.

Mycroft nodded. “Of course.”

“Someone, or someones, broke into a classified area a few hours ago.”

“That sounds highly unlikely.”

“Yes, that’s why I called you.” Anthea pointed to a chair. “The director says you can use this office until she arrives. The list of suspected missing documents are on that paper.”

Mycroft frowned and narrowed his eyes as he read over the list of suspected missing documents. They were all compiled in late 2002, all one on subject: the Iraq War.

“I can see the public interest in this,” Mycroft muttered. “I can see why someone would want to steal these.” He paused, alarm bells suddenly ringing in his head as he read the title and date of one of the meetings. It had been his first Government meeting. He’d only been there to advise on the risk of national security threats if the country went to war.

“Not every document on that list has been taken,” Anthea said.

“Do you know which ones?” he asked.

“No.”

Mycroft chewed his lip. “I’d like to call Detective Inspector Lestrade. I’d like him to take control of the case.”

“I don’t know if we can do that.”

“I don’t care. Anthea, my name is on one of those files.”

She stared at him. “Really?” she asked.

Mycroft nodded. “Yes. I’d like Lestrade to lead this in case I need to take his files or keep some aspects private.”

“Do you want me to call him?”

Mycroft hesitated. “No,” he said. “No, I’ll do it.”

He felt sorry for waking the man up, but he managed to convince Greg to take the case. He woke the Yard Commander next, requesting Greg’s presence on the scene and for him to take charge. The Commander barely argued, just gave Mycroft everything he wanted.

Mycroft followed Anthea to the scene of the crime. PC… no, Sergeant, she’d been promoted, Sally Donovan was already there, taking prints. Mycroft stood by the wall, watching them as they worked. “What about the CCTV?” Mycroft asked, glancing at the various cameras around the room.

“It was all switched off,” Amthea said.

“So, do we suspect the guards or those who watch the CCTV?”

“They were all ready to be interrogated, but we’re waiting until DI Lestrade arrives.”

Mycroft nodded. “And any signs of forced entry?”

“None. Not as far the police can tell.”

“Just a few papers were taken,” he murmured, studying the boxes on shelves. “If you have access to a huge area of classified papers, why don’t you take as much as you can carry?”

“Another question,” Anthea said. “If you get in without setting off the alarms and without being caught on CCTV, why do you alert the police about the break-in? Those files could be missing for years and no one would know.”

“Because they’re planning to publish them,” Mycroft realised. “You can’t leak something to the press unless you know for a fact that the press will believe those documents are genuine. Whoever it was, they wanted us to know what they took.”

“I’ll go and wait for the Inspector,” Anthea murmured. “Would you like a drink?”

Mycroft shook his head. “No. Once he gets here, I’d like to go back to the office. I trust him to do his job.”

Anthea smiled and nodded. “I’ll be outside,” she said.

Mycroft glanced around the room, a tall PC with high cheekbones meeting his eye. The man smiled and shrugged, walking over. “You work here?” he asked.

“No,” Mycroft replied. “I’m from the Government." He flashed his card. "This was a classified section.”

The PC nodded. “I know. We’ve been told not to read anything already. The files will only be read by someone official, to work out what’s missing.”

“When can we take them?” Mycroft asked.

“As soon as we’ve checked all the prints out. So far, coming up short.”

“Did you see the woman who was here with me?” The PC nodded. “She can take the documents. She has clearance.”

“That’s up to our DI.”

Mycroft smiled. “I’m aware. Don’t let me distract you.” The PC nodded and walked away. Mycroft looked up as he heard Anthea enter the room with Greg in tow. Greg waved to him and Mycroft nodded. “Good morning, Greg. Thank you for coming so swiftly.”

“No problem.” Greg looked around. “What do you need me to do?”

Mycroft led him to a bookcase, lowering his voice. “This is more than an elaborate break-in,” he explained.

“What d’you mean?”

Mycroft glanced around. “I can’t explain it here. Can you come by my office this evening?”

“Which one?”

“The Coeur de Lion Offices.”

Greg nodded. “Sure, course I will. So, why did you want me to lead this?”

Mycroft paused for a second. “Because I trust you,” he said, holding his eyes. “And because our jobs are about to intersect, and I would rather work alongside you than another Inspector.”

“Okay.”

“I need to get back to work. I’ll see you this evening.”

Mycroft held out his hand and Greg shook it, before Mycroft walked away, leading Anthea out. He had a funny feeling he already knew exactly what file would be missing. He had a strange feeling it would have his name on it.

* * *

**March 2004.**

**Location: SIS Building, Vauxhall Cross, London.**

_Sylvia Ross beamed at him when he was shown to her office. “Mycroft,” she said, smiling. “Welcome.”_

_He nodded his head, smiling in return, glancing out of the window at her magnificent views over the Thames. “Mrs Ross," he said, lowering his head again._

_“Oh, you are a charmer,” she said, laughing as she held out her hand. “I’m not the Queen, dear, you don’t need to bow to me.”_

_He smiled and took her hand, brushing his lips against her knuckles. “The Queen of intelligence,” he said. “And that’s royal enough for me.”_

_She laughed, shaking her head. “Oh dear. Perhaps if you treated other people the way that you treat me, they wouldn’t hate you so much.”_

_Mycroft nodded and took a seat. “Perhaps. But they also wouldn’t be afraid of me.”_

_“Very true. But fear needs to be balanced with respect.”_

_“Do you think I fail on that count?”_

_Sylvia smiled, reaching for the teapot and pouring them each a drink. “I don’t actually,” she said. “Now, indulge an old lady for a while will you?”_

_“I always do,” Mycroft replied, accepting his tea. “Thank you, Mrs Ross.”_

_“How long have we known each other, Mycroft?”_

_“As long as I have been involved with MI5. Which was in 1991.”_

_“Oh gosh, time flies. I still remember the day I met you.”_

_Mycroft laughed, sitting back in his chair. He sipped the tea. “Lemon and ginger.”_

_“Always,” she said, her eyes sparkling. “Keeps my brain young. I heard a rumour about you, Mycroft.”_

_“Oh dear. What now?”_

_“I heard a rumour that the heads of MI5, MI6 and GCHQ have agreed to share their intelligence with one another, under your command.”_

_Mycroft paused. “For secret service personnel, they’re not good at keeping secrets.”_

_“Now, now, Mycroft. You know people trust me. Who have you got working for you?”_

_“No one, thus far.”_

_“But you will be, of course, taking on some people?”_

_Mycroft nodded. “Of course.”_

_“Can I make a recommendation?” she asked._

_“I’d always welcome it.”_

_“You are a wonderful strategist, Mycroft. The best we’ve ever had. Your observational skills are exemplary. You see patterns in intelligence that other people miss. But I’m afraid you are both a terrible organiser, and you are simply useless at taking care of your staff.”_

_Mycroft smiled, knowing both of those things were true. “Charming.”_

_“I know someone who is an adequate strategist. But her true skills lie in her negotiation and her organisation. She is very good at reading people and she is also incredibly personable.”_

_“I see.”_

_“You should meet with her.”_

_“Does she have any experience in the security services?”_

_Sylvia smiled. “I’d say. She has been my protege for a long time.”_

_“Who is she?”_

_“She’s a charming young woman, who commands a lot of respect herself. And she is very, very capable.”_

_“Who is she?”_

_Sylvia sipped his tea. “Well, I’m afraid I can’t say.”_

_Mycroft frowned. “Why not?”_

_“Just meet with her, Mycroft. Let her prove herself to you.”_

_“If she is so capable, why would you let her go?”_

_“Because she’s just been fired from her job.”_

_Mycroft raised his eyebrow. “She’s been fired by MI6?”_

_“Correct.”_

_“With good reason?”_

_Sylvia frowned, sipping her tea. She sighed and lowered her cup. “Yes. With good reason. She had to be fired, they had no other choice. But that doesn’t mean firing her wasn’t a difficult decision.”_

_“What did she do?”_

_“Ask her yourself. Mycroft. She would make a wonderful office assistant. But she is worth more than that. Trust me, you can’t do this without her.”_

_“I don’t completely know what it is I’m doing, to be honest.”_

_“I know,” she said. “That’s fine. Please, just meet with her, Mycroft.”_

_“Where can I find her?”_

_“The London Clinic in Harley Street.”_

_“A hospital?”_

_Sylvia nodded. “Let her explain. I believe she’s signed in under the name Rita Hepburn. She’s always had a love for the classic films, you see. Trust me on this, Mycroft. Just trust me.”_

* * *

_One hour later, Mycroft was walking through the private hospital until he found the woman’s name on the door. He knocked, waited a few moments, and walked in. The woman with dark hair was lying on her back, her left arm in a cast. She had a black eye and stitches on her head. She glanced at him before looking back up at the ceiling._

_Mycroft couldn’t work out a lot about her. Her head injury looked worse than it probably was. She had stitches and cuts up both her arms, as though she’d been struck by some sort of shrapnel._

_“Hello,” she said, not looking at him. “Are you here to do what he couldn’t?”_

_Mycroft frowned. “What who couldn’t?”_

_“The man who was here earlier. He came here to kill me, and he couldn’t bring himself to do it. Are you his replacement?”_

_Mycroft stared at her. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, I’m afraid. What man?”_

_“He didn’t give a name. Who are you?”_

_“Who are you?” Mycroft asked._

_“I asked first and you’re in my room, you tell me.”_

_“I was sent here.”_

_“Oh right,” she said, rolling her eyes. “Wonderful. So, you’re not here to kill me. What is it instead? To order me to report to some secret court? To ship me off somewhere someone else will torture and kill me? Don’t worry. I haven’t spilled any secrets.”_

_“I have absolutely no idea what you’re talking about.”_

_She paused for a second, turning her head and studying him. “I’m still deciding on my name,” she said. “It’s my forth change of name, and I’m hoping it will be my last. So I need something… something perfect.”_

_Mycroft took a seat beside the bed. “I’m sure you’ll come up with something,” he said, frowning._

_“I suppose so. Who are you?”_

_“Mycroft Holmes.”_

_“I’ve never heard of you.”_

_“I don’t doubt it. Sylvia Ross sent me.”_

_The woman swallowed, her calm expression falling in an instant. “Sylvia,” she said, her voice soft. “Oh. Why?”_

_“She thinks you’re a capable woman and told me I should meet with you.”_

_“Why?”_

_“Because I understand you’re in need of a job. And I’m need of an employee to work with me, at the centre of British intelligence.”_

_The woman laughed, shaking her head. “Oh right. Wonderful. Of course you are. And you clearly know I can’t refuse the offer because I haven’t got anything else to go to.”_

_“Why were you fired?”_

_She closed her eyes. “You have no right to come in here and ask,” she said, her voice tense._

_Mycroft stood up. “Very well. Best of luck finding a new job.”_

_“Wait,” she said, looking at him again. “What are you doing, exactly?”_

_“I can’t tell you unless you work for me.”_

_“And I can’t work for you unless you know more about me.”_

_“Correct.”_

_She sighed, turning back to stare at the ceiling. “I suppose it’s hardly secret in MI6 now anyway.” Mycroft sat back down in the chair and watched her. “I was working on a secret assignment in Pakistan. Very few people knew about our mission. We were intelligence-gathering and we gathered a lot of it. They were…” She felt silent for a second, taking a deep breath. “Are you sure you’re not here to kill me? Are you sure you’re not here to get my secrets and then blow my brains out of something?”_

_Mycroft rolled his eyes. “I’m guessing you were on the Halcon Mission. Am I correct?”_

_The woman blinked. “Oh. Hardly anyone knows the name of that mission.”_

_Mycroft nodded. “Yes. I’m not here to kill you. Now continue.”_

_The woman sighed. “They were going to target a market. This wonderful, vibrant, busy market. To send a statement.”_

_“Who were?”_

_“The terrorist group we were watching. We were there to observe. Not to act. We just needed to gather intelligence. I was told we were not allowed to intervene. Because it would blow our cover. There were children,” she whispered, her voice shaking. She pressed her lips together, visible anguish on her face. “And women and men with ordinary jobs and ordinary lives. They were… they were just all going to die, so they could make a statement.”_

_Mycroft shifted in his seat, watching her. She took a few deep breaths, trying to compose herself._

_“I was in charge,” she continued. “And I gave the order to intervene anyway. There were children,” she said again. She turned to Mycroft, staring at him coldly. “Three of my team are dead. Four of them are in hospital, one critical, another has lost two limbs. And they blew up the marketplace anyway. And it’s my fault, because I gave the order. I was pulled out of there immediately, our cover blown. Of course, they fired me. They had to. I understand Sylvia Ross is the only person on the panel who supported my actions. She was my mentor, ever since I joined MI6. Her career is… I wanted to be like her. But before you ask, I don’t regret my decision. I’d do it again in a heartbeat. Because there were children. And they didn’t deserve to die and I had to do something.”_

_Mycroft nodded. “Did you want the gentleman who came here to kill you?”_

_“No,” she whispered. “No. I think it’s better that I live with it.”_

_“We make difficult decisions sometimes in our work,” Mycroft said, studying her. “There are decisions we make… that sometimes we can’t live with. You will never stop picturing what you’ve seen. You will never stop wondering what you should have done differently. But you can continue to work. And hope that work makes a difference.”_

_“And how do I do that, exactly?”_

_“Work for me.”_

_She frowned. “Work for you? Even when you know what I… what I did?”_

_“Mrs Ross thinks you are capable. And she thinks we will complement one another.”_

_“What would I do?”_

_“You would be my assistant. But, admittedly, a woman with your talents deserves more than that. But I’m only just beginning to put my organisation together. And you can help to shape it.”_

_“Intelligence gathering?”_

_“Yes. But we may also be diverging into Government matters.”_

_“I see,” she said, though she seemed bewildered._

_“Think about it.”_

_“I will.”_

_Mycroft stood up, placing his card on the table beside her. “You will need to come up with a name soon though,” he said. “I can’t hire someone who has amalgamated the names of two famous film stars.”_

_She nodded. “Anthea,” she murmured. “I think it will be Anthea.”_

* * *

**June 2006.**

**Location: Coeur de Lion Offices, Mayfair, London.**

Mycroft flicked through the papers which had been left behind by the thief or thieves. There was only one document no longer there. “It’s missing,” he said, his voice grave.

“The one from your meeting?” Anthea asked.

“Yes. I don’t think there’s anything substantially interesting in it but…” Mycroft frowned. “Whoever is behind this must know something about me. Why take that document otherwise? There was nothing of interest to it at all.”

“Do you have any suspects?” she asked.

Mycroft paused, a list already forming in his mind. “Anthea, you won’t like it.”

She watched him for a moment, frowning. Mycroft held her eyes. “No,” she said, taking a step backwards. She pointed at him. “No, he has got nothing to do with this.”

“I have no reason to trust him,” Mycroft murmured. “He could still be working with the Iranians or the Russians or the French. Or he may just be commissioning and creating sculptures. But I don’t know.”

“He has nothing to do with this.”

“Anthea.”

“I know you don’t like him,” she said. “But I trust him. Isn’t that enough?”

“No. It’s not.”

She stared at him. “Fine,” she said tightly. “He’s at the studio. I’m sure if you call him, we can clear this all up.”

“I need to see him face to face.”

“He’s not involved in any of that anymore,” Anthea snapped. “He sculpts. That’s all he does.”

“It doesn’t matter, Anthea. He has spent his career working as a double-agent. And worse than that, he has access to you. And I know you wouldn’t tell him anything about what we do here. But he knows enough about your life to make me doubt him.”

“It’s not his fault.”

“Anthea.”

She swallowed. “Fine. I’ll tell him to come here.”

“Thank you.”

“But he’s not trying to discredit you. I promise you. It’s not him.”

“Let me find that out for myself,” Mycroft murmured. He glanced at his computer screen. “Greg Lestrade’s here,” he said.

She nodded. “Please, don’t do this.”

“Anthea.” He sighed as he sat back in his chair, watching as she left, before putting the files away in his desk drawer. He didn’t want to target Anthea’s partner, but at the moment, he was the only person he could think of who had any reason and means to go after him. So few people knew about his position, and as far as he could see, he was the only liability.

At the knock on the door, he turned away his laptop and Anthea opened the door to let Greg in. “Everything alright?” Greg asked as he turned to her.

“Nothing we can’t handle,” she said. She turned to Mycroft. “I’ll go out and set up a meeting.”

“Do come in,” he said to Greg.

“What’s going on?” Greg asked as he took a seat opposite. Mycroft watched as Anthea walked out, her shoulders tense. He waited until she closed the door.

“We found out what files are missing,” Mycroft explained.

“Is it bad?” Greg asked.

“Yes, I suppose so. And strange. Would you like a drink?”

“I wouldn’t say no to a coffee actually,” Greg said. Mycroft nodded and sent a message to Loretta.

“It’s on it’s way,” Mycroft said. “First, please tell me about your day. What did you find out?”

“Not much. We interviewed the security guards and to be honest, all of them seemed really affected by it all. You get a feel for people sometimes, and they seemed to be feeling guilty for something it doesn’t look like they had a lot of control over. They weren’t told the CCTV had gone out. And they were all in the right places during their shifts.”

“Can you work out who turned off the cameras?”

Greg shook his head. “We’re looking into where it’s all controlled and who has access to it.”

A tray was brought in with their drinks and Mycroft poured them out. He handed the drink to Greg, smiling tightly at him. “The files were classified.”

“How bad is it?” Greg asked.

“The documents in themselves are not particularly interesting. I don’t think their release would lead to any particular embarrassment.”

“Then what’s weird about it?” Greg asked.

Mycroft hesitated, weighing up just how much to admit. He chose to be honest. He chose Greg to lead the investigation for a reason - because he trusted him. “The meeting in question was the first Government meeting I ever attended.”

“That is a bit weird.”

“Yes,” Mycroft agreed. “I am not on a Government salary, Greg. I am an employee, officially, of MI5. And so my name has never been in the public domain before.”

Greg frowned. “Never?”

“No. What interest is there in a civil servant in the Department of Transport?”

“I take your point,” Greg said. “But there are a lot of people who know you, surely?”

“Yes, but they don’t often appreciate my full range of responsibilities.”

“What was the meeting?” Greg asked.

“The consideration of the threat to the United Kingdom if it were to engage in patrolling no-fly zones in Iraq.”

“That was your first meeting?”

“I was there not as a Government official, but as someone with experience both in MI5 and MI6. The meeting itself was primarily looking at potential outcomes and risks. We were not condoning or confirming a particular military strategy but rather doing mathematics.”

“Maths?”

“Probability,” Mycroft corrected.

“Well, I can see why people would be interested in reading about it,” Greg said. “People talk about the Iraq war a bit.”

“Yes, I suppose the idea a meeting happened at all would be of interest. My recollection, however, is that much of the meeting was unrecorded. It was not an official gathering. There was an agenda and a set of minutes, but they were not comprehensive. My name will, however, be on them.”

“In what job?” Greg asked.

“What do you mean?”

“How are you listed? As an expert or what?”

“Oh. I believe I was cited as an adviser on national and international security matters. Not even regarded as an expert.”

“Is it bad? If your name gets thrown up?” Greg asked.

Mycroft shook his head. “In the short-term I very much doubt it. It is the mid-term and long-term which concerns me.”

“Do you think that file was picked on purpose?”

“Almost certainly. It was in a large box containing minutes from other similar meetings. It was the only one taken. When given the opportunity to sell a number of documents to the national papers, wouldn’t you take more than one?”

“Yeah, I would,” Greg agreed.

“Exactly.” Mycroft sighed. “It will be leaked. I imagine it will be put onto the internet and seized upon by whichever paper pays the most and they will claim they found it for themselves.”

“It might not be a big deal. You’re just a name.”

“Perhaps,” Mycroft said. “It’s impossible to be certain.”

“We’ll keep plugging away our end. We’ve got loads of leads to chase at the moment.”

“Anthea will keep you up to date with what we unearth,” Mycroft said, sipping his tea. “I would prefer if you don’t share the nature of the document with your colleagues just at present. It is best for all concerned if we don’t share how closely we are working together.”

Greg nodded. “That’s fine. “How late are you working tonight?” he asked.

“Quite a while yet,” Mycroft said. “The break-in took priority this morning, but it’s thrown everything else off schedule.”

“So, what do we do now? Wait and see what happens?”

“Yes, I’m afraid so. It will be published. It’s about waiting for when and where. This theft isn’t just about who. It is about why.”

Greg nodded. “Yeah, I get that,” he said. “I’ll leave you to it.”

Mycroft smiled tiredly at him. He wanted to spend more time with him, but knew it just wasn’t going to happen that night. “I hope to finish work at a reasonable time on Friday,” he said, before Greg could leave.

Greg frowned. “Friday? You want to do something?”

Mycroft paused, suddenly aware that he may have been expecting too much. “Perhaps.

Greg smiled and stood up. “Sounds good, if you’re free. Just let me know, yeah?” Mycroft nodded. “Don’t worry, okay? I’m sure it won’t be a disaster, whatever happens.”

Mycroft smiled tightly at him. “Goodnight, Greg.”

“Night, Mycroft,” Greg smiled and walked out of the office. Moments later, Anthea was walking into his office.

“He’ll be here in an hour,” she said. “Please be gentle.”

“I can’t make any promises.”

“He’s not the man he was when I met him.”

“I’ll be the judge of that.”

Anthea stared him, her jaw clenched, before leaving the room and slamming the door shut. Mycroft went through the documents one more time. He was certain he was the target. He had to be. He couldn’t understand why that was the only document taken otherwise.

Just under an hour later, Anthea wordlessly opened his office door. She and Mycroft stared at each other as Arnou Fortier walked in.

“Mr Holmes,” he said with a bright smile. But Mycroft didn’t look at him. He just stared at Anthea until she left the room, closing the door behind her. Mycroft turned his attention to Anthea’s partner, who was standing behind the other seat, his hands behind his back.

He was an attractive man with dark eyes, dark hair and a dark beard.

“I thought it was about time we met,” Mycroft said, not offering him the seat.

“Well, it’s my pleasure,” Arnou said.

“You’re Spanish?”

“Half Spanish, half French.”

“I see.”

Arnou watched him. “I… don’t know why I’m here.”

Mycroft nodded. “I’m well aware,” he said. “It hasn’t been forgotten by me, of course, that only two years ago you were ordered to kill Anthea.”

Arnou swallowed, and glanced down at the desk and then back at Mycroft. “Correct.”

Mycroft watched him. “I can only imagine that men are still trying to track you down. And your successful art career puts you very much in the public eye.”

“Do you think men like that care about art?” Arnou asked.

“I think men like that care when they have been betrayed.”

“They think she’s dead.”

Mycroft raised his eyebrows. “I see. And if they work out otherwise?”

“Then _I_ am as good as dead.”

Mycroft gestured to the chair and Arnou nodded and took it. “That is what concerns me,” Mycroft said. “Anthea is important to my work. And I would hate to see her come to harm. I protect my own.”

“So do I.”

Mycroft sat back in his chair, assessing him. “Are you still working for the Iranians?”

“No.”

“The Russians?”

“No.”

“The French?”

Arnou nodded. “Sometimes.”

“On what?”

“Passing on details about the Russians.”

“Do you know Anthea’s real name?”

“No.” Arnou’s head jerked, just a fraction, and Mycroft knew that was the first lie he’d told since he’d arrived in the office.

“Have you been involved in anything other than sculpting in the past month?”

“No,” Arnou said. He didn’t flinch. Mycroft knew a liar, and he suspected Arnou wasn’t one of them, regardless of how good a spy he had been.

“Very well,” Mycroft said. “But I warn you, if anyone harms her and it is linked to you, I will not be merciful.”

“Good. Because that’s mutual.”

Mycroft studied him. “Anthea is a capable woman in her own right. She doesn’t require my protection. Nor yours. But while I keep her safe in this office under my surveillance, you are a wanted man. I don’t trust you. If I had my way, she would have nothing to do with you, but it is not for me to control her life.”

“I agree.” Arnou looked at him “I do love her. I’ll do whatever it takes to keep her safe. No matter what happens, I won’t let them find her.”

“Good. I’m holding you to that.”

Arnou nodded. “I’m holding myself to that,” he said.

Mycroft held his eyes. “You can go,” he said.

“Thank you, Mr Holmes.” He stood up, nodded his head and wandered out of the office. Mycroft frowned and wiped him off the shortlist. Well, it was a long-shot anyway, he supposed.

* * *

As far as Mycroft was concerned, every problem had a solution. He just needed to look in the right place for it. He was at work two days later when the first newspapers arrived at the office, and Anthea carried in a copy of the Daily Mail.

Mycroft frowned as he took it from her and read the headline. _State Secrets Reveal War Cover-up._

He frowned. “I don’t think that’s an accurate headline.”

“It doesn’t matter, does it?” Anthea said. “It’s out there now.”

Mycroft opened it and began to read the story. “This isn’t news. Of course non-Government officials were studying the risks of going to war. What does this newspaper think the Civil Service is _for_?” He took a deep breath. “Well, it doesn’t mention my name. Clearly that wasn’t regarded as important enough to publish.”

_The document - stolen from the National Archives at Kew two days ago - has been leaked onto the internet where it is publicly available for download._

_Put onto a website called the MORnetwork, the document reveals discussions on the war had been taking place years before the United Kingdom officially announced it would send troops to Iraq._

“What is this website?” he asked. “Have you heard of it?”

“No,” she said. “The ‘paper says it’s just a black page with that link available to download from.”

“Is Danny in?”

“Mr Holmes, it’s 2am.”

“Is it?” he asked, checking his pocket watch. “Oh. Right. Well, as soon as Danny is in, can you please ask him to trace the website, and anything he can. I don’t know what he’ll have to do but… if he can track it, or… Whatever the correct terminology is.”

“Yes, sir.”

Mycroft rubbed his face, frowning. “I’m beginning to wonder if I’m paranoid, Anthea. Maybe it doesn’t have anything to do with me. Maybe the person took a file out and panicked and left.”

“Perhaps.”

He took a deep breath. He was beginning to feel as though walls were caving in on him. He couldn’t find the solutions to any of it, not to the leak, not to Hadrian Kirkcudbright’s murder, not to how he could finally bring an end to Rickard Luck’s activities.

Too many puzzle pieces, but none which fit together. He frowned. “I want DI Lestrade’s files. Every one one of them.”

“I’ll sort that out.”

“I’ll email him to let him know I'm taking the case. How is my schedule looking?”

“I’ve kept it as empty as I could. You’re meeting the Home Secretary and the Prime Minister.”

“Oh, bugger,” he muttered. “The Terrorism Alert System.”

Anthea nodded. “What do you need from me?”

“I don’t know. Perhaps Danny should come to the meeting. It’s his programme, he knows it better than I do. I can sell it and he can answer the questions.”

“Go home,” she said. “The meeting isn’t until noon, and there’s plenty of time for yourself and Danny to sit down and discuss it.”

Mycroft nodded. “Yes, you’re right.” He sighed and stood up. He gazed at her for a moment. “Anthea…”

“It’s alright,” she said, as though she knew what he was going to say. “I don’t blame you. You did what you had to do, and I don’t hold that against you.”

“Thank you.” He collected his phone and tucked it into his pocket. He walked past her, leaving her to turn the lights out. He walked down the stairs and past the security and got into his car outside.

He closed his eyes, pressing his fingers against his forehead.

It was the only official Government meeting he had ever attended. The only one he had ever been listed as attending. It was no coincidence. The universe was simply not that lazy. He clenched his fists.

His work: The leak. Kirkcudbright. Rickard Luck. The Terrorism Alert System. Keeping an eye on Watchtower. North Korea. Iran. Diplomats all out for themselves. Hapless MPs like Andrew Regis. The damned press.

And his personal life: Sherlock. His drugs. Keeping his parents happy. And Greg Lestrade. Wanting him and hating himself for it.

He got out of the car, shuffling up the stairs to his flat. He slammed the door closed, and it still didn’t stop the thoughts rampaging through his head.

Why was someone after him? Who killed Hadrian? How the hell was he going to bring down Luck? And he had to stand up to the Prime Minister tomorrow and persuade him to invest in Danny Finck’s programme and… and… and Sherlock. He hadn’t spoken to him in weeks and weeks, and he was probably dosed up to the eyeballs already, injecting goodness knows what chemicals into his veins, destroying his immune system…

He shut the bathroom door as he brushed his teeth, staring at his own tired face in the mirror. He looked away, turning the light out. He got changed into his pyjamas and slid into bed. He lay on his back, his eyes open.

“Stop it,” he whispered to himself, as though it would switch his mind off. He lost count of how many times he rolled over until he was finally able to sleep.

* * *

He sent Greg an email with a link to the story as soon as he got to work, promising to see him on Friday. When Danny arrived, they spent some time going over strategies for his meeting with the Prime Minister and Home Secretary.

“What have you got on the MORnetwork website?” Mycroft asked as they sat in the car on the way to Whitehall.

“Nothing, sir.”

“Nothing at all?”

“Well, first of all, it is in the Deep Web, which means it isn’t listed by search engines.”

Mycroft blinked at him. “I’m very intelligent, Danny, but that means absolutely nothing to me.”

Danny grinned. “You can’t find it on Google.”

“So how did the newspaper find it?”

“They were probably given instructions. It was simple enough once your contact at the Mail explained the links were accessed via a JavaScript.”

“Danny. Where was it created?”

“I don’t know. But the server is in California.”

“California.”

“Yes.”

Mycroft paused. “That’s… remarkably unhelpful.”

“Hence why I have nothing for you yet.”

Mycroft sighed and shook his head. “Well, if you can’t find more on it, no one can.” He looked up as the car came to a halt. “Right then. Perhaps if you can confound the Prime Minister with some technology-speak, then he’ll give us what we want.”

Danny laughed, following Mycroft to Downing Street. But as they approached the doors, he saw Danny brush down his clothes and shuffle his feet. “It’s fine,” Mycroft murmured. “Just tell them the facts. Allow me to do the rest.”

Danny nodded. “Yes, sir.”

Mycroft smiled to the security staff he recognised and followed the Prime Minister’s PA to the main meeting room. He shook hands with the Prime Minister and Home Secretary and Secretary Of State For Defence, introducing Danny to them.

They all took a seat, passing around the plate of biscuits. “The floor is yours,” the Prime Minister said with a smile.

Mycroft nodded. “For the past year, as you all know, my office has been working on a number of projects relating to the UK’s national security. It was around two months into the project and during one of our weekly meetings that someone asked whether what we were discovering could be quantified. Could we count the number of genuine security risks? Could we rank how likely they were to take place? Could we, then, using numbers, discover how at risk the UK was of a terrorist attack?”

The Prime Minister nodded. “Alright,” he said. “I’m listening.”

Mycroft sipped his water. “I hope Danny won’t me saying this, but he has one of the finest mathematical minds in this country. He could be an excellent physicist or an outstanding academic. Instead, he has dedicated himself to our country’s security.”

From the corner of his eye, he saw Danny blush and duck his head. Mycroft smiled, finding it was surprisingly pleasant to praise his colleagues for their good work.

“Following the meeting, Danny sat down with our numerous programmes and databases and began to work on what we are now calling the Terrorism Alert System. It doesn’t cost much to run. It works using a series of mathematical equations, which Danny can explain far better than I could. But at its core, it is a series of simple answers to a difficult question. Just how high is the terrorism threat level in this country? Low, moderate, substantial, severe or critical? This is a similar to a system used by the Ministry of Defence, which is named BIKINI State. Goodness knows why. But this is better, for reasons I’m sure you will all appreciate when I pass around these documents.” He began to pass the papers around. “If you have any questions, myself and Danny will endeavour to answer them.”

“It makes sense to me,” the Prime Minister said. “All I’m interested in is what is the UK’s threat level now?”

“Based on the numerical information, we would say it is ‘severe’.”

After an hour of discussion, Mycroft and Danny went to leave, with the system agreed upon in principal. “Mycroft,” the Prime Minister murmured as he got up. “A word?”

Mycroft nodded and walked towards him.

“This Iraq War thing… you didn’t leak it or anything did you?”

“No,” Mycroft said. “I was as surprised as you were when I saw it on the news.”

“Only, correct me if I’m wrong, but weren’t you at that meeting?”

Mycroft nodded. “I was. But I had nothing to do with the papers being stolen and uploaded to the internet, I assure you. And we are working with the police and doing all we can to find the culprits.”

The Prime Minister smiled. “That’s all I wanted to know. Good work today. Danny seems impressive for such a young kid.”

Mycroft nodded. “He’s been quite a revelation.”

They shook hands. “Come round for tea in a couple of weeks. We’re overdue a catch-up and debate over my policies.”

Mycroft smiled. “Certainly.” He walked out and followed Danny to the car.

* * *

There was a bar in London that Mycroft occasionally took MI5 or MI6 officers too. It was loud enough to avoid being overheard and no one paid attention to anyone but themselves. It was there that he met Dimitri Grasty.

There were several members of the Russian Secret Service who worked for MI6 instead. Mycroft had got to know a few of them over the years. He’d worked with Dimitri Grasty once before, sharing intelligence relating to a joint operation on the Russian and Kazakhstan border.

Mycroft stood up when Grasty walked in. Age had changed him. Worn him down. He was in his mid 50s now, still young enough to spend time running around, but old enough that he could have chosen a life behind a desk had he wanted to.

They shook hands and Mycroft poured out their tea. “Been a long time,” Grasty said, glancing around the bar.

“I appreciate you coming on such short notice.”

“I was in the country already.”

“Doing anything of note?” Mycroft asked.

“Not at a liberty to say. What do you want?”

“Does the name Tatiana Garzone mean anything to you?”

Grasty nodded. “Means a lot, yes. She was a very good agent. I heard a rumour she was taken out.”

“It’s more than a rumour.”

“Oh, really? Contract killing?”

“Yes. It appears that way. A single bullet to her head. I was wondering if you might make use of your extensive contacts and do some work investigating?”

Grasty nodded. “As if I haven’t got enough on my plate.”

“You will be well compensated.”

Grasty smiled. “I wasn’t complaining. This is my work. And besides, I’ve got a bit of a cover going already, owning a jewellery shop.”

Mycroft raised his eyebrows. “Is this something I need to turn a blind eye to?”

“Probably for the best, yes. Do you just want to know the name of the hitman?”

“I want everything you can dig up.”

Grasty nodded, standing up. He shook Mycroft’s hand. “I’ll email you my bank details. I doubt you’ll need much else.”

“Do. Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me yet,” Grasty said with a cool smile. He nodded his head and walked away from the table.

* * *

Mycroft was sat in his office on the Friday afternoon when he heard shouting outside his office. Frowning, he walked to his door and opened it, only to find Sherlock standing outside, struggling against one of the security guards.

“Sherlock,” Mycroft said, raising his eyebrows. “Was breaking in really necessary?”

“Tell them to unhand me.”

Mycroft rolled his eyes and nodded to them. They let Sherlock go and he rubbed his arms, glaring. “What do you want?” Mycroft asked.

“Only to solve all of your problems.”

Mycroft shook his head. “Makes a change to you causing them, I suppose. Come in.”

Sherlock followed him into his office, closing the door. He took a seat, leaning against Mycroft’s desk.

“Is this a selfless visit, or do you want something?” Mycroft asked, pouring them each a cup of tea.

“I’m doing you a favour out of the kindness of my heart.”

Mycroft almost laughed. “Are there flying pigs outside?”

“There could be if the internet rumours about Baskerville are to be believed.”

Mycroft managed a smile, sitting down across from his brother. He frowned at him. His skin looked clear, his eyes alert but not abnormally so. In short, he looked healthier than Mycroft had seen him look in years. “You seem to be… drug-free.”

“Yes. I’ve had a few cases to work on. And of course, I’ve been figuring out your problem while you walk around with your head in the clouds.”

Mycroft frowned. “What problem?”

“Your break-in at the National Archives. Classified files stolen. It must be a concern.”

“It might be.”

“Well, you wouldn’t like anyone to find out that you’re becoming more powerful than the Prime Minister, would you?”

Mycroft shook his head. “That’s hardly the case.”

Sherlock gave a non-committal hum. “I don’t mind. I’m used to your theatrics.”

“ _My_ theatrics?” Mycroft asked. “A bit rich.”

Sherlock frowned and stood up. “If you’re going to-”

“-Sherlock, sit down. What are you here to say?”

Sherlock begrudgingly took a seat again. “I’ve been reading about the break-in in the newspapers. And it’s entirely possible I stole Lestrade’s files while he was out at lunch.”

“Oh for goodness sake,” Mycroft muttered.

“I put them back. He didn’t even know I was there.” Sherlock narrowed his eyes. “Oh God, are you still…” He waved his hand about. “Doing… what you do?”

Mycroft glared at him. “Get to the point.”

Sherlock watched him. “God, you really are getting slow. Old age, brother?”

“Hardly.”

“But you can’t see what’s right in front of your… well, with a nose like that, I suppose you do have the look quite far ahead but nonetheless…”

“Sherlock,” Mycroft snapped.

Sherlock smiled. “CCTV,” he said.

“What about it?”

“It was switched off.”

“I thought you were better than stating the obvious.”

Sherlock huffed. “You still don’t see it.”

“See what exactly?”

“Doesn’t it remind you of anything? The CCTV being expertly switched off, nobody noticing… and then it coming back on again just after a crime had been committed. No obvious suspects, nothing at all?”

“Kirkcudbright,” Mycroft muttered.

“You are getting slow.”

“They’re very different crimes.”

“They’re connected. I don’t know how. I thought perhaps you’d have a way of tracking the CCTV signals.”

“The Archive cameras link to a central control room within the building. But it also links to an off-site server…” Mycroft paused, frowning. “I haven’t read the Kirkcudbright files for a long time but…”

“They’re also remotely-accessible,” Sherlock said.

“Could that be… hacked into somehow?”

Sherlock shrugged. “I don’t know.”

Mycroft eyed him for a moment before requesting Anthea joined them. Minutes later, Danny was sat on Mycroft’s laptop while Mycroft waited for Anthea to retrieve copies of the Archive and Kirkcudbright police files. He stood over Sherlock’s shoulder while they read them together, noting the similarities in the cases.

Mycroft bit his lip. “Mr Holmes?” Danny said. Mycroft walked around the desk. “I found where the signals came from for the cameras to be turned off. They both came from this same house here.”

“Both sets of cameras?”

“Both.”

Mycroft shared a look with Anthea. “Anthea, get a team to that building immediately. An armed team. Be prepared to take someone out if need be.” She nodded and left the room, followed by Danny.

“Are you going to tell Lestrade?” Sherlock asked.

“Why would I do that, exactly?”

“Because he and I are still working on the Kirkcudbright case and if we figure that out, then we may be able to figure out your Archive case as well.”

Mycroft sighed and sat down. “What do you think?” he asked.

“I think someone’s out to get you. Any idea who?”

Mycroft sighed. Rickard Luck. “A fleeting thought but… As far as I’m aware, the man doesn’t know I exist.”

“Unless you have a leak,” Sherlock said. “Or Lestrade has a leak.”

“I do not have a leak.” Mycroft paused. “Greg may have a leak. Someone at New Scotland Yard was searching for Tatiana Garzone, a Russian agent, by name… But we have no idea who.”

“I’ll keep an eye out.”

“Do. Thank you.” Mycroft checked the time. “He’s going to be here in half an hour.”

“What if Lestrade’s the leak?”

“Oh don’t be ridiculous,” Mycroft muttered.

“I don’t know. If you’re blinded by some stupid infatuation…”

“I am not… I’m not infatuated. And you know him better than I do. Do you think he’s a risk?”

Sherlock paused and then shook his head. “No,” he said. “He’s annoyingly… good.”

Mycroft nodded. “I know. It’s irritating.”

“He has a need to protect people and save them.” Sherlock shrugged. “He’s stubborn too.”

“Yes.”

A while later, Anthea informed them that the building was deserted, with no cables or computer equipment to speak of. She said they were checking for fingerprints, but no one was expecting anything.

Sherlock stood up, frowning. He walked behind Mycroft’s chair, staring at the map on the screen with him. “If you’re the target, they’re going to wait to see what you do next.”

Mycroft nodded. “Yes,” he agreed. “I suppose I do absolutely nothing for a few days. You need to encourage Greg to focus purely on the…” He stopped speaking when he heard the knock on the door. “Yes!” he called out.

Greg walked in, frowned at Sherlock and then turned to Mycroft. “What’s going on?” he asked.

Mycroft eyed Sherlock for a moment before turning to him. “We will be leaving shortly But I need to show you something first.”

Greg nodded. “Okay.” Greg walked around to stand behind Mycroft. “What’s this?” Greg asked, peering at the map.

“This is the National Archives on the night of the break in,” Mycroft said, pointing to a dot on the screen. “Move, Sherlock,” he said. Sherlock skulked to the other side of the desk, slumping down into the chair. Mycroft pressed a few buttons. “These green lines show the CCTV camera network, stretching across London. Two minutes later…” Mycroft pressed a button and some of the lines turned red. “The power was turned off here,” he said, pointing to a tiny building on the map.

“What is that?” Greg asked.

“It’s a house containing three flats,” Mycroft said. “It’s deserted.”

“So the cameras were turned off from that house?”

“Hacked,” Sherlock said. “They were hacked into and switched off.”

Mycroft showed him the CCTV images from Hadrian’s house, much to Greg’s displeasure, and the way the power was cut from the same house.

“Jesus,” Greg muttered, staring at the screen. “You’re making this up. They’re linked?”

“Yes,” Mycroft said.

“It’s not a coincidence?”

“No,” Mycroft agreed.

“The MORnetwork. Whatever that is.”

“Yes,” Mycroft said. “I have the best people working on the problem as we speak. We have a mutual problem. You need to find a killer and I need to find a thief of classified documents.”

Greg began to pace the room, shoving his hands into his pockets. He was angry Mycroft had the Kirkcudbright CCTV, although Mycroft couldn’t work out why that bothered him so much. He’d taken Greg’s cases before, after all. Mycroft watched him. “Are you ready to go to dinner?” he asked.

Greg frowned. “I guess so.”

Mycroft stood up. “We can discuss this tomorrow. Sherlock, will you be joining us?”

Sherlock stared at him. “Joining you? Both? At dinner?”

“You are more than welcome,” Mycroft said.

“Not a chance,” Sherlock said, getting out of his seat. “I have far better things to do than watch you both…” He pulled a face, “do whatever it is you do.”

“We don’t do anything,” Greg protested.

Sherlock grabbed his phone from Mycroft’s desk. “Mycroft, instruct your driver to take me home.”

Mycroft took the phone from him, calling down to his driver to take Sherlock wherever he needed to go, and to request someone else bring a second car for Greg and himself. Greg was glaring at him, his arms folded.

“Stop looking so angry, Greg,” Mycroft said. “I’m not taking the Kirkcudbright file off you. You will be able to solve it without the MORnetwork link. I just wanted to impress upon you the importance of us working together on this.”

“Consider me pressed upon,” Greg muttered.

Mycroft raised his eyebrows at him. He had thought he was doing Greg a favour, but the man was unexpectedly angry at him. It made Mycroft’s chest clench but he was not going to apologise.

Greg pointed at him. “Don’t look at me like that.” Mycroft huffed and rolled his eyes and walked towards the door, holding it open. “I’m warning you, Mycroft,” Greg said as he walked out into the main office. “Piss me off again tonight and you can pay for the very expensive lobster I’m going to order.”

Mycroft glared at his retreating back as the rest of his staff stared at Greg in disbelief. Mycroft shot them a look and led the way out of the building. He slammed the car door shut as they got in.

“What was that?” Mycroft snapped.

“It was a comment directed at the fact that you walk around like you can do whatever you want. And maybe you can, I don’t know. But I’m not going to sit there and say it’s okay for you to control the universe, because it’s not.”

“Don’t be prone to such hyperbole,” Mycroft hissed.

Greg snorted. “Me? Says Mr ‘my name isn’t in the public domain’ Holmes.”

“It is a matter of national security.”

“Your name is a matter of national security?”

“Yes,” Mycroft spat.

Greg laughed and shook his head. “You are so full of yourself. What?” Greg asked. “Are you going to have me sacked for standing up to you in front of your minions?”

“Don’t be so ridiculous,” Mycroft muttered.

“That’s exactly what you think, isn’t it? That me and those people, we’re all ridiculous because we’re not as smart as you are.”

“You’re all people, Greg,” Mycroft spat back. “And you all live in the world so obliviously. You don’t see anything. You walk around with your mouths open like gormless apes.”

Greg folded his arms. “Didn’t mind having your cock in my open, gormless mouth though, did you?”

Mycroft felt his face warm. “What’s that got to do with anything?”

“Nothing,” Greg said. “Except you’re not so un-human as you like to make out. Your ‘I’m better than you’ routine doesn’t wash with me.”

Mycroft stared angrily at him, waiting for him to say something clever or storm away. Either way, he wanted the argument. He wanted an excuse to take Greg home and never see him again. To be able to take his cases without feeling guilty about it.

Greg breathed out, visibly relaxing. Mycroft frowned. “So where we going for dinner?” Greg asked.

Mycroft stared at him. “Dinner?” he asked.

Greg turned to grin at him. “Yeah, dinner. I’m starving. Or did you miss my stomach growling back there?”

“You’re… not still angry?” Mycroft asked.

“Oh, I’m furious,” Greg said. “Figured a bottle of wine would cheer me up though. A good one, none of that Pizza Express crap. C’mon. Let’s have dinner. Night off from murder and national security. What do you say?”

Mycroft hardly knew what to say, but he relaxed a little as he saw the restaurant come into view. Mycroft led them out, still watching Greg, still baffled by the man. “You are quite remarkable,” Mycroft murmured as he stepped beside him.

“Is it my amazing good looks or sparkling personality?” Greg asked, grinning.

“Neither,” Mycroft said. “It is that I have absolutely no idea what on earth you’re going to do next.”

They were shown to a table in the corner and Mycroft counted the number of diners. He sat down and checked the wine list. His mind was racing again. It had been doing that a lot lately. He found he was unable to focus on anything for long. It was almost certainly why Sherlock had spotted the CCTV link and he’d missed it, and he knew he would only get more angry with himself about that failure as the night wore on.

“What’s up?” Greg asked.

“It’s been a long week,” Mycroft replied.

“Tired?”

“No.”

“You’re like me. You don’t switch off.”

Mycroft nodded, staring down at his menu. “It’s impossible,” he admitted.

“I know,” Greg said.

“The noise,” Mycroft murmured, touching his head.

“I thought you delegated your thoughts or something?” Greg asked him.

“Yes, usually. There’s been a lot happening at once.”

“How’d you switch off?” Greg questioned.

“I don’t.”

“What about when you’re listening to music or reading?”

“I rarely get the chance to,” Mycroft admitted.

“So, you just… spend every minute thinking?”

Mycroft paused for a moment. “I find our… sexual activities help,” he said softly, not able to meet Greg’s eyes.

“Oh good. Here I was thinking I needed to improve my technique.”

“No,” Mycroft murmured, looking down at his own menu. They ordered their food.

“You’re claustrophobic,” Mycroft remarked once they had been given their wine. “What happened?”

“First, tell me how you know,” Greg said.

Mycroft told him about his desk. The patches on the floor. That he’d moved the furniture around so he could face the door. “You have never once taken the lift at Crusader House,” Mycroft pointed out.

“I didn’t know there was one,” Greg said.

Mycroft shot him a knowing smile. “Nonsense. I live almost at the very top. Most people would have asked.”

“It’s not a happy story,” Greg said.

Mycroft nodded. “The stories behind why people have phobias rarely are.”

“It was one of the first foster homes I actually have a memory of,” Greg said. “They had an older kid, maybe 12 or 13 or something. He didn’t like me much. Anyway, we were playing this game on a single bed. And for whatever reason, I had to go under the covers. But he covered the top of it with his body so I couldn’t get back out. And the covers were so tightly packed in at the end that I couldn’t get out at the sides. And the kid, y’know, he didn’t know how scary I found it, being stuck. I felt like I was drowning, I guess. I was small and the bed felt massive. And then, a bit after I got adopted by the Lestrades, I went on holiday with them to see some of dad’s family. We went swimming in this outdoor lake. And, dad’s brother. It was just a joke, and he pushed my head under but…” Greg trailed off, taking a sip of his water.

“It’s suffocating,” Mycroft finished for him. He gripped his right knee, that thought of being submerged in water, that fear of drowning suddenly overwhelming him.

“Yeah. I avoided lifts and stuff ever since. Even the tube, when it’s busy, I’d rather walk.”

Mycroft glanced down at his wine glass, frowning. He’d been claustrophobic even before his time in Iran, and it had started when he was a child. But he’d never told anyone before. Tristan worked it out when he’d refused to get into a lift, even though the room they wanted was on the 31st floor. And Anthea had realised herself too. But he’d never told a soul, not the story from his childhood, or from Iran. Well, the Iran story was not for Greg to know anyway. “A boy held my head under water in a swimming class when I was 12,” he said softly.

Greg glanced at him. “You don’t take the lift in Crusader House either,” he murmured.

“Correct,” Mycroft said.

“That’s how you knew,” Greg said. “It wasn’t just because I moved my desk around. It’s because you would have done the same thing.”

Mycroft nodded. “Yes.”

Their starters were brought over to them, Greg appearing to enjoy the quail egg he had ordered.

“So how many people have you told about your claustrophobia?” Greg asked.

“You’re the first,” Mycroft replied.

“I’m honoured then. So, I can’t imagine you as a kid. What did you want to be when you were growing up?”

“A veterinarian.”

Greg grinned. “A vet?”

“Yes. And yourself?”

“A footballer. What about Sherlock?”

“A pirate,” Mycroft said, and the memory made him smile, because that had all been at a much easier time.

Greg laughed. “Yeah, I can imagine that. How many years are between you two?”

“Seven.”

“What was Sherlock like as a kid?”

“Ghastly,” Mycroft said. “Our parents had no idea what had happened.”

Greg laughed and sipped his drink as the dishes were cleared away. “Speaking of Sherlock. He told me you have his violin.”

“Yes,” Mycroft said. “It would have been stolen within moments of him moving into that horrendous flat of his.”

“Do you play anything? Any special talents?”

“The piano and the cello. But Sherlock possesses a natural gift.”

Greg frowned a little. “I’ve never seen a piano in your flat.”

“I never enjoyed it,” Mycroft said.

“You like reading though?”

“I do, when I have the time.”

“Do you have a favourite book?

“The Turn Of The Screw by Henry James.” Mycroft smiled wistfully. “As a child, I was both terrified and intrigued by it. As an adult, I see the different interpretations, the difficulty in determining the exact evil he was hinting at. He didn’t write about ghosts who slashed and killed. And somehow that was far more horrifying.” Mycroft glanced at Greg and found he was staring at him, holding his eyes, some daft grin on his face. “Apologies,” Mycroft added, realising he’d got carried away.

“No,” Greg said quickly. “No, I could listen to you talk about that all night.”

Mycroft didn’t truly know how to respond to that. He wasn’t used to talking about his interests, or indeed, being asked about them.

“It’s alright,” Greg said later, as they ate their fish courses. “I’m not going to start telling people about you. I mean, who would I tell?”

Mycroft was grateful for the pianist, because it meant he didn’t need to focus on the conversation. Instead, he ate his food, trying to muddle his way through the day in his mind. It had been exhausting. But it had been nice to work with Sherlock. It had felt almost as though they liked each other. Almost.

“How are you enjoying being a Detective Inspector?” Mycroft asked.

“Love it,” Greg said. “I have a great team, it’s interesting. I’m always busy. Sometimes a bit too busy, but I remember to sleep sometimes.”

Mycroft chuckled. “That does sound familiar.”

“It’s changed a lot since I started though.”

“How so?”

“Government messing around mostly. The bottom line is always more cops on the streets. That’s what we all want. But it seems like every year we get more and more paperwork. And when there’s less cops on the streets and crime goes up, people, rightly, complain. So what do they do? Invest in more policemen and more paperwork. And loads of it is arse-covering in case someone puts in a complaint about something. Sally Donovan was just promoted. She’s a brilliant copper. She’s smart, street-savvy. She’s got everything you need. And I want to help bring up a new young policeman or woman to be just like her. But we don’t have the money to do it. So we’re a man down. There’s only one thing I’ve got going for me that the other DIs don’t.”

“And what is that?”

“Your brother.”

Mycroft smiled. “I’m sure that isn’t always an advantage.”

Greg laughed. “You’ve got that right. He’s bloody lucky he met me. He’d have his arse in jail by now, I reckon. Well, unless you’d have bailed him out, I guess.”

Mycroft smiled. “I am truly grateful he met you.”

“You’re grateful you met me too, right? I mean, who would you have called after that break-in at the Archives?” Their main courses were put in front of them. “This was a great choice,” Greg said as he tucked into his meal. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

“No, Mycroft. Really, for bringing me here. Thank you. I mean,” Greg continued. “I was so hungry I’d have been happy if you took me to McDonalds.”

Mycroft laughed. “I’ve never had the pleasure.”

“What a shock that is,” Greg grinned. “You’re not missing out. Jesus. I’m in food heaven.”

“Have you any plans for the rest of the week?” Mycroft asked.

“Nope. A few days off work, and I’m playing football on Tuesday night assuming nothing massive happens. And you?”

“A few days abroad.”

“Sun, sea and sand?”

“Conference rooms and long meetings.”

Greg smiled sympathetically. “You work too hard.” Mycroft raised an eyebrow at him. Greg laughed. “Alright, pot, kettle, I get it. But when was the last time you had a holiday?”

“When was the last time you had a holiday?” Mycroft asked right back, knowing full-well that Greg didn’t take time off either. And if he did, he worked anyway. And it struck Mycroft how awful he was for Greg. He couldn’t him offer him anything except occasional meals and occasional nights, and the man would work himself into an early grave if he wasn’t careful.

“I had a week off a few months ago.”

“And what did you do during your week off?”

Greg frowned. “I was looking at cases.”

“You should go on a date, Greg,” Mycroft said, watching him.

“Date?”

“Yes. I’m sure there are plenty of men and women who would enjoy time in your company.”

“I’m sure there are, but I’m not interested.”

“Why?”

“I’m not lonely or anything.” Greg forced a smile. “You trying to get me out of your hair?”

Mycroft watched him. Yes, he thought, that would be for the best. But he couldn’t say it. Because he liked Greg’s company, and he liked kissing him, and he hadn’t had half the sexual encounters he wanted with him yet. “No,” Mycroft finally said. “But this will not go on indefinitely. I would request you do not start caring, Greg.”

“Caring? For you?”

Mycroft nodded.

“Mycroft, I’m not going to fall for you for God’s sake.”

Mycroft felt it like an axe to his heart. He pushed a piece of food along his plate. And that was the right answer, because he didn’t want Greg to fall for him, but hearing those words hurt regardless. And he knew it. He’d known he wasn’t a healthy or right choice, not for anyone. And he didn’t want to be anyone’s choice either. But Sherlock was right, Greg did want to protect everyone. But clearly he saw what everyone else saw - Mycroft was too far gone to be protected.

“Fuck, that came out wrong,” Greg said. “I don’t mean I couldn’t fall for you. Because Christ, if I could get past your armour then I’m sure I could pretty easily. But I know where I stand and so do you and we’re friends. I know that, and you know that, and I’m not going to let sex turn into something more. If I think it’s going that way then I’ll stop.”

And that was even worse. Mycroft didn’t want him as a friend, and he didn’t want him as a lover and he didn’t want him as a partner. He wanted… He wanted Greg’s arms around him. Why couldn’t it be that simple? Why couldn’t he have him at both arm’s length and be wrapped up in him all at once?

He snapped out of his thoughts as Greg touched his arm. “Mycroft? Are you going to reply to me anytime soon?” he asked.

“I doubt it,” Mycroft replied.

“Friends, Mycroft. We’re here tonight as friends. And some sort of weird colleagues or something.”

“Sex confuses matters.”

“Then let’s stop having sex.”

Mycroft stared at him. His chest ached, but he nodded. He knew it was for the best, and even though it was a painful prospect, he had to say it was inevitable. “Very well,” he murmured.

“So, now that’s sorted.”

Mycroft couldn’t look at him. He’d wished he’d spent a bit more time kissing him, and he would have done if he’d considered it was going to be the last time. He’d never suspected Greg would be the one to end it. He never imagined Greg would want to push him away…

“It’s alright, you know?” Greg said after a while.

“Mm?”

“Whatever is going on in your head right now. It’s all okay. And, look, contact me whenever you want. Whatever it is, whatever time it is. If you need me, just tell me.”

“I cannot possibly ask that of you,” Mycroft said.

“Yes you can, Mycroft. Because who do we have otherwise?”

“You should have more friends,” Mycroft said.

“But I don’t.”

“I cannot understand why not.”

Greg raised his eyebrows. “You’re Mr Deduction. I’m sure you’ve come up with some big conclusion based on the way I write my name or something.”

Mycroft pressed his lips together. “I haven’t given it much thought. But it must be living in the care homes and foster homes, the bonds you made never lasted a very long time. The friends you had left one way or another and you never had a consistent companionship.”

“Sounds about right,” Greg said.

“Friends,” Mycroft murmured.

“Yeah. That’s all it is.”

Mycroft asked for the bill.

“I hope your trip is successful,” Greg said, looking at him. “I’ll find a case to keep Sherlock busy. I think he needs something new to really get his teeth into.”

“I’m sure the murderers of London will oblige,” Mycroft said, amused.

“Yeah, they don’t seem to have off months,” Greg grinned. “As long as I don’t get any more dead kids, I’ll be happy enough.”

They left together, Max driving them to Greg’s flat first. They didn’t say a word. Mycroft stared at the back of the chair, the tension palpable. It felt as though they were saying goodbye for the final time, because Mycroft wasn’t convinced he could fulfil the friendship Greg wanted. He didn’t know if he wanted to. Because it terrified him that he’d always crave more. Now they’d taken that step… apparently it was impossible to go backwards.

“Goodnight,” Mycroft said as Greg opened the door.

Greg nodded to him. “See you,” he said. Mycroft watched as he went to his building, before being driven home.

* * *

**November 1995.**

**Location: Washington DC, United States of America.**

_“Beautiful, isn’t it?” Jimmy Dine’s gruff voice came from over Mycroft’s shoulder._

_Mycroft smiled, staring out across the twinkling lights of the city. “It’s hardly London.”_

_“Better,” Jimmy replied, pressing his naked body against Mycroft’s fully-clothed back. His cuts had healed enough that it didn’t hurt anymore. “You leaving?”_

_“I’ve got several jobs to do before I go to bed.”_

_“You’re working too hard.” Jimmy’s lips pressed against his neck. “I’ve got smokes and alcohol here. Oh, and me. What more d’you need?”_

_“To finish my work.”_

_“Well, for what it’s worth, I’m here all week.”_

_“Is that so?”_

_“Mmm. I could be naked and at your beckon call.” His fingers stroked against Mycroft’s hips. “Is that what you want?”_

_Mycroft closed his eyes, tilting his head back to rest against Jimmy’s shoulder. “You’re ridiculous,” he said._

_Jimmy nodded and nuzzled Mycroft’s neck. “I’m here when you’re done,” he said, stepping away. Mycroft looked over his shoulder at him, his eyes tracing down Jimmy’s chest with the dusting of hair, his tattooed arms, down to his hips, his cock, his strong thighs, one heavy with scars. “See? You want me as much as I want you,” Jimmy laughed. “Stop making it so damn difficult and just stay here. Work’s boring. Have a few hours off. And fuck me again.”_

_Mycroft laughed, shaking his head. “You’re insatiable,” he said._

_“Yeah,” Jimmy replied, grinning at him. He lay down on the bed, stretching out and lighting a cigarette. “Piss off. Go on. Come back later. I may or may not still be up for it. I’ll just sit here with my porn and wish it was your hand rather than mine.”_

_Mycroft stared down at him. “You’re very tempting.”_

_“I know. You’re the first bloke who’s ever resisted me for this long. I’m beginning to worry. Am I getting old?”_

_Mycroft laughed, collecting his papers. “Hardly old.”_

_“Older than you by eight years. That’s old enough. Come by later anyway. We’ll see how long you can resist me when I’ve got my fingers buried inside my ass.”_

_Mycroft laughed and walked over to the bed. He leaned down and kissed him, tasting cigarettes and Budweiser beer. Jimmy’s hand wrapped protectively around the back of his neck, his fingers tickling the hair there._

_“Goodnight, Jimmy,” he said as they broke apart._

_“’Night, Myc,” Jimmy said with a wide grin and a wink as he wrapped his hand around his cock._

_Mycroft smiled and left, stepping out into the hallway so he could complete his_ _work in his own hotel._


	18. Hostile Environment

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: For a physical assault between siblings. And references to death and shooting. 
> 
> I think this may make some tough reading. It was tough to write (first because the brothers wouldn't play ball. And then when they did play ball... well, it got rather nasty. So I watched Game Of Thrones to have some distance from it. And boy was that a mistake, because it was an equally horrifying episode!)

**June 2006.**

**Location: Whitehall, London.**

The longer hours Mycroft seemed to do, the more work he received. He was struggling to find a balance, if he were honest, which was how he still found himself in his office at gone 2am, fielding international calls.

Mycroft nodded his head as the American Secretary of State appeared on his laptop screen. “How can I help?” Mycroft asked, reaching for his mug and finding his drink had long since gone cold.

“I wanted to give you folks a heads up, and since you and I had a bit of a rapport going, I thought I’d go to you direct.”

Mycroft frowned. “Is it important?” he asked.

“No. Well, yeah. But it’s nothing you guys can do to help. Look, we think North Korea has finished fuelling a long-range ballistic missile. And we’ve got intelligence telling us it’s going to be detonated on its east coast.”

Mycroft raised his eyebrows. “Why are you telling me this?”

“There’s nothing you folks can do about it. Tell your PM if you need to, but this is part of a much bigger picture.”

“How far could it get?”

“We reckon it’s capable of reaching maybe Hawaii. Maybe Alaska. We’ve warned them against launching it.”

Mycroft blinked. “A warning? That’s it?”

“What else can we do? I’m not trying to piss them off.”

Mycroft nodded. “I can’t speak for the Prime Minister, but I imagine his message would be quite simple. We stand behind the United States and we trust your diplomats to do their job to the best of their ability.”

“What do you think?”

“I think we can’t win.”

“Me too.”

Mycroft paused, frowning. “I could suggest we try to set up some trade agreements with South Korea. I know a while ago, we were trying to encourage them to intercept North Korean ships. It’s possible we could start talks again.”

“It’s a good idea. We’ve worn over the same ground a million times. I think it’s good to get some fresh faces going in.”

“I can only make the suggestion,” Mycroft said.

“That’s good enough for me," the Secretary said. "Here, Mycroft. Heard a couple of rumours your PM is coming under a bit of pressure with this Iraq business. He’s not going to jump ship is he?”

Mycroft paused. “I haven’t heard anything. There are press rumours, but nothing anyone has been able to substantiate yet.”

“You don’t have that kind of relationship?” the Secretary asked.

Mycroft smiled. “We debate policy and diplomacy. I try not to get caught up in party politics.”

“You must have beliefs though?”

“Of course. But what I believe politically is irrelevant. All that matters is national security.”

“Yeah. Fair enough. Another thing.”

Mycroft smiled. “You do realise it’s two in the morning here?” he asked.

“I didn’t. But you should definitely go to bed. You got some sweet something to keep you warm at night?”

Mycroft raised his eyebrows. “What was the other thing?”

“Oh right. What the hell happened with Montenegro?”

Mycroft laughed. “Don’t ask. Have a good day, Mr Secretary.”

“Sleep tight, Mycroft.” They both hung up and Mycroft finally stood up, rolling his shoulders. He’d sent Anthea home hours ago, and the hallways and offices were mostly deserted as he walked past them. It was the third time that week that he’d stayed late, and had often ended up having phone calls and conversations with people living in an assortment of timezones.

He looked up at the sound of footsteps, to see a backbench MP shuffling down the the corridor, books in hand.

“You’re here late,” Mycroft said to him.

The MP shrugged and laughed. “Working on a bill,” he said. “I got through on the ballot for a Private Member’s Bill so I’m trying to draft it.”

“What are you working on?”

“Trying to block mobile phone signals to prisons, to stop them doing illegal stuff while inside.”

Mycroft paused, considering it. “I don’t believe we’ve met,” he said. “I’m Mycroft Holmes. I have a little experience working with phone signals,” he lied. “If I could just give you my assistant’s details…” He reached into his briefcase, retrieving his card and handing it over. “Give Anthea a call, and she can arrange a meeting. It all sounds quite interesting.”

The MP nodded and smiled. “Cheers,” he said. “I’ll do just that. Goodnight.”

“Goodnight,” Mycroft said, walking outside. Phone signal blocking. He hadn’t heard about that technique before, but it was potentially interesting. He’d have to do more research. Which meant more work. Not that he minded. It was a welcome distraction from everything else in his life.

He knew he was working so hard because he was trying to keep his mind off his personal life. And one aspect of it in particular. He hoped that if he wore himself out so much, he could just get into bed and fall fast asleep.

Of course, he only ever had one face in his mind every time he closed his eyes. It belonged to a certain Detective Inspector with enigmatic brown eyes and greying hair, with the ability to light up every single room he entered. And even though they'd pledged to end it... well, apparently switching his thoughts off was far more difficult.

Damn him.

* * *

**December 1995.**

**Location: Afghanistan.**

_Mycroft sat the end of the bed. He was staring at the wall, holding his hand out in front of him as though it didn’t belong to him. He didn’t move a muscle even as Jimmy took a seat behind him, sprawling on the bed as he sipped his beer from the bottle and kicked his shoes off. They made a soft thud as they landed on the floor. “You alright?” he asked, but Mycroft barely registered it._

_He stared down at his fingers, flexing them. “I pulled the trigger,” he murmured, frowning._

_Jimmy snorted. “Yeah, because that guy would have blown your face off if you hadn’t.”_

_Mycroft pursed his lips. He knew that was true. He knew he would have died, or the other man would have, and in that split second, he made the decision to save his own life. He acted on instinct following months and months of training. Months of months of learning how not to freeze. The other man had frozen, giving Mycroft those split seconds to choose life over death._

_He hadn’t even been out on a mission, not properly. He’d been with Jimmy at a warehouse, where they had hoped to meet with a source. It was supposed to be safe, but then the gunfire had started. They’d run, the man had emerged from around the corner, aimed the gun and…_

_“Do we know who he was?” Mycroft asked._

_“No. Don’t even bother finding out. It’s not worth it.”_

_Mycroft turned to him. “I took his life. I think I owe it to him who learn his name.”_

_“Owe it to him? He’s dead, Myc.”_

_“Fine,” Mycroft muttered. “It’s easy for you, you’ve killed… I don’t know how many people you’ve killed.”_

_“I stopped keeping score after three. It’s not worth it, you drive yourself mad. You’re alive, that’s what’s important.”_

_“Important to whom?”_

_“Your parents, I imagine.” Mycroft shook his head and stood up. “Look, maybe it was too early for you to be out in the field again,” Jimmy said. “I’ll recommend to Toby that-”_

_“-I’m fine.”_

_“Seriously, you don’t look fine right now. You don’t have to be all tough.”_

_“That’s rich,” Mycroft muttered. “Being tough seems to be your motto.”_

_“Yeah, but I’ve been doing this longer. I know how this shit works.”_

_“I know how it works!” Mycroft snapped at him. “But he… he paused, Jimmy. He looked me square in the eye, and he froze. He froze because he didn’t want to kill me.”_

_“Nope. He wanted you dead. He just didn’t have the training you had.”_

_“The training?” Mycroft repeated. “And they’ve trained me to what? Not care about taking someone’s life? To not consider whether they have children, and parents and a wife?”_

_Jimmy frowned at him. “Yeah. That’s exactly what they trained you to do. And then you spend 24 hours chewing it over and thinking, who gave me the right to shoot someone in the head? And you think what you should have done differently. And that’s all I’m giving you. You have 24 hours to feel guilty, then you move on.”_

_“How?”_

_“Because you’re alive, and if you hadn’t shot him you wouldn’t be. And it’s that simple. Tomorrow, you sit down with Toby Goff and you file a report. And he’ll know you did it because you had no choice, and then you move on.”_

_“I don’t know if I can.”_

_Jimmy nodded and stood up, putting his bottle of beer down. He strolled over to Mycroft, cupping his face in his hands. “You have to. As your superior, I’m not giving you a choice.”_

_“And as my… whatever this is?”_

_“As your boyfriend, I’m giving you 24 hours.”_

_Mycroft nodded, closing his eyes as Jimmy’s lips met his. Jimmy walked him into the bathroom, slowly undressing him. They stood in the shower together, watching as another man’s blood washed away down the plughole._

_“You don’t forget,” Jimmy whispered against his ear. “You just keep living. Because he didn’t just want to blow your face off. He’d have killed me. He’d have killed all of us. And maybe he’d have kept killing, until someone got him. You’re alive now. And now you use your life to make a difference to people. That’s why we do this. Because we’re saving the lives of people right around the world.”_

_Mycroft looked him square in the eye. “But this never ends. I don’t know what we’re doing this for.”_

_Jimmy leaned down and kissed him hard, and they fucked against the cold tiles. Then they passed out on the bed, their hair still damp, the lights still on._

* * *

**July 2006.**

**Location: Crusader House, Pall Mall, London.**

Mycroft opened the balcony doors at six am, closing his eyes as a small breeze wafted into his face. They were in the middle of a heat wave, with record temperatures of around 36.5 degree Celsius throughout the capital. He’d chosen to work from home, and instructed a number of his staff to do the same. Mycroft had paid for some air conditioning to be installed into the offices, but it wouldn’t be until that afternoon that the work would be completed.

After dressing, he took a fruit salad and a glass of water out onto the balcony, where he sat with his work for a few hours. He found he enjoyed it far more than he was expecting, being able to type up some reports and send emails while sitting in the shade. It was fair cooler there than it was indoors.

At nearly 10am, he received a text from Greg to say he was worried about Sherlock. Mycroft dismissed it, knowing Greg would take control of the situation. He’d seen nothing in Sherlock’s surveillance to indicate he’d been paying for drugs.

And he had too much work to do to spend his time chasing after his brother.

* * *

He looked up from his chair in the living room some 12 hours later as his front door swung open and Sherlock stormed in, his eyes flickering to everything in the room. Mycroft shook his head in disbelief. “Really, Sherlock? And I thought we were doing so well to kick your despicable habit.”

Sherlock stared at him for a moment, slamming the door shut behind him. Mycroft rose from his seat, closing his laptop down and putting it on the table. “And what is it that brings you here, exactly?” he asked.

“I need money.”

“No, you don’t, you have plenty sitting in your bank account if you ever got around to accessing it. And I don’t keep cash at the flat.”

Sherlock sneered and shook his head. “You’d give it to me in a heartbeat if it was on your terms.”

“More than likely. But this isn’t on my terms, is it? Why don’t you run along and ask people to submit cases to your website?”

“Too much effort.”

Mycroft rolled his eyes. “Of course it is. What do you really want?”

“Sit.”

Mycroft raised his eyebrows. “Good God, Sherlock. Really?”

“Sit.”

Mycroft frowned. He continued to stare at his brother. “And what exactly is it you’re going to do?” he asked. “Interrogate me? Shout at me? Hit me? I’m sure you’ve attempted all of those things ever since you decided injecting chemicals into your veins was the best solution to your overactive imagination.”

“Shut up.”

Mycroft swallowed. “A drink, I think, is in order,” he murmured, retreating to the kitchen. He took a deep breath, pouring himself them each a glass of water. He took his phone from his pocket, sending a message to Greg.

 

MESSGAES  
10.23pm: Can you please come to  
Crusader House? I need some help  
with Sherlock. M

 

He walked back into the living room and put both glasses down on the table in front of Sherlock.

“Your driver’s wrong,” Sherlock said. “The water doesn’t make any difference. I’m just as high before it as I am after it.”

“Then perhaps it might stop you from gurning. Your gums are already bleeding.” Sherlock frowned and opened his mouth, licking around his teeth with his tongue. Mycroft pulled a face. “What did you take?” he asked.

“Something different. Something… God I…” Sherlock smacked his hand against his head. “He told me it was good. He promised it would be good but it just…”

“Oh? A drug dealer lied to you?” Mycroft rolled his eyes. “I’m so surprised. What was in it?”

“I’ve no idea.” Sherlock wavered for a moment, reaching his hands out as though to regain his balance.

Mycroft held the glass of water out. “Drink it,” he said.

Sherlock’s eyes flicked to his. “It’s not enough that you try to control my bank balance, my living accommodation, my violin, my cases. You have to control my water intake.”

“Hardly.”

“I despise you.”

“I know,” Mycroft said, staring him square in the eye. “Do you think you hid it, somehow? Because you’re really not that opaque. I can see through you in an instant.”

“I see through you,” Sherlock replied, his voice low.

“I don’t think you do, actually. I show you what I want you to see, and you see what you want to see. Except what you want to see doesn’t exist either, so really you see nothing at all.”

“I observe.”

Mycroft snorted. “You think you do. Oh, you think you notice who they had sex with, and who has the alcohol problem. But you don’t see anything at all in reality. You’re so keen to avoid your own thoughts that you take drugs to dampen them. And you miss everything.”

“I could have had a top job in MI5.”

“I don’t doubt it. In fact, I would have offered you a position myself, had you not squandered your life on heroin.” Mycroft shrugged, putting the glass back down on the table. “If you keep this up, you’re going to die, I imagine, some time in the next five years. Our parents would be most distressed.”

“They’d blame you.”

Mycroft nodded. “I’m quite aware that they would. Perhaps I’d blame myself too. But it doesn’t change the fact that you’d be dead, and I can’t help but feel I’d be a tiny bit relieved about that. I’ve tried to protect you for more than 20 years-”

“-I never asked for your protection.”

“But I gave you it anyway,” Mycroft snapped. “But at some point, you are going to have to face up to the fact that you are responsible for your own mistakes. So, if you despise me, Sherlock, then fine. I've always known you have, ever since you were very small.” Mycroft took a step towards him, holding his eyes. “But don’t challenge me. Don’t push me.”

“Why?” Sherlock muttered, matching his step with one of his own. “You’ll have me killed too?”

Mycroft took a slow breath. “I won’t need to. You’re doing a wonderful job of that yourself.”

“Just because you found someone willing to indulge your… disgusting habits, you think you can lord it over me? Lestrade will see through you soon enough.”

“I don’t doubt it,” Mycroft replied. “Run along, Sherlock. Go and inject yourself or snort it up your nose. Anything you think might help to shut your brain down. But when you end up lying on a slab, don’t think for a single moment that I will mourn this man that you’ve become.”

“If I’ve become anything, it’s because you’d made me this way.”

“No, Sherlock.” Mycroft stepped closer to him, until they were standing nose to nose, and Mycroft could make out his chapped and bloody lips and dilated pupils. “This one’s on you.”

Mycroft missed the first swing, as Sherlock’s arm came up to hit his head, but that same arm reached around and grabbed his twist, twisting it painfully around his back. He applied pressure to Mycroft’s wrist until Mycroft felt it might snap and then pushed him into the wall, face first. Mycroft let out a yell. 

“You still can’t fight,” Sherlock snarled into his ear. “You’re still not better than me. If you think Lestrade somehow makes you a _good man_ then you’ve got it very, very wrong. You will never be _good_. And you are a truly appalling brother.”

Mycroft winced, trying to struggle away. “And what does that make you?” he asked, letting out a hiss of pain. “The devil himself?”

“Don’t push me, Mycroft,” Sherlock said close to his ear. He pushed him harder against the wall and Mycroft let out an anguished cry. “Not when I know the things you’ve done.”

Mycroft swallowed. “As I’ve told you many times before,” he managed to say, struggling against him. “You’ve got it completely wrong.”

He gasped as Sherlock’s other hand wrapped around his throat, cutting into his windpipe. He breathed hard through his nose.

“You’re a liar,” Sherlock muttered. Mycroft tried to kick his leg back, but even in Sherlock’s drug-addled stupor, he managed to squirm out of the way, his hand wrapping more tightly around Mycroft’s throat. He forced himself to breathe, capturing as much air as he could as he gasped. The world blurred a little at the edges, and his eyes watered. He struggled, trying to get a purchase on the wall and trying to wriggle out of Sherlock’s grip.

There was a shout, and all he knew was that Sherlock was being yanked off him. He stepped away, touching his throat and taking some deep breaths. He could only look to where Greg had Sherlock slammed against the wall, his face full of more rage than Mycroft had ever seen.

“Mycroft, d’you have a room I can shove your idiot brother in?” he asked.

Mycroft nodded, his legs shaking. “The spare bedroom beside to the bathroom,” he whispered. He rubbed his wrist, and turned to the window, unable to meet Greg’s eyes. He walked towards it, wiping his face with the back of his arm. He rested his forehead against the cold window pane, shutting his eyes.

He could feel the pain in his throat and his wrist. He took one long shaky breath, forcing himself to be calm. Distantly, he could hear Greg shouting at Sherlock, but he couldn’t make out the words. He hung his head, not wanting to move.

He replayed the conversation back in his mind just once, and knew he regretted most of what he’d said.

But Sherlock’s actions hurt him too, both the drug-taking and his aggression. Sherlock was an addict, and an addict’s curse was to hurt everyone around him. It wasn’t enough to destroy his own body, his own mind. He wasn’t content until he’d taken down everyone around him too, so that they could understand his pain. So that they could understand why only illegal substances made everything better.

Mycroft shouldn’t have let himself get so angry, of course he shouldn’t have, but he felt as though he had no options, not anymore. Even Greg hadn’t kept Sherlock from causing himself more damage.

He pressed his lips together, forcing himself to relax, imagining the Natural History Museum. Of walking through the grand doors, of seeing Dippy in the atrium. Of counting the bones, of… The door to the spare room opened and Greg walked out, breaking Mycroft’s concentration.

He didn’t turn to look at him.

He took a deep breath. He was very aware of Greg’s presence in the room from where he sat on one of the chairs. He could see him out of the corner of his eye, watching Mycroft, motionless.

He wanted to kneel down at his feet and rest his head in his lap and give in. He wanted Greg to rake his fingers through his hair and to lie and tell him that he was fine, that he was _good_. To tell him that Sherlock was wrong.

Everything hurt. His throat, his arm, his heart, his head.

And he did hold the fates of millions of lives in the palm of his hand.

More than once, he’d had the fates of individuals in the palm of his hand. He’d shot men dead. He’d given an order to kill a man dead.

He bit his bottom lip as he glanced at Greg. He’d dragged a good, honourable man into his world. A man who deserved better than all of this, dealing with Sherlock, dealing with _him_. He tensed as Greg stood up, beginning to walk towards him. Don’t, he wanted to say. He wanted to raise his hands up, and create a barrier between them. Their eyes met, just briefly. Mycroft’s heart sped up. He felt the heat between them and a desire for Greg to hold him. There was so much mutual understanding there, as though Greg had heard the whole exchange. Greg was the only one who seemed to understand.

“That wasn’t the first time he did that, was it?” Greg asked as he stepped beside him.

Mycroft shook his head. His strong resolve faltered as Greg wrapped his arm around his shoulders. Mycroft glanced at him. Don’t, he wanted to say. But Greg’s eyes were soft and concerned. He cared too much. Mycroft couldn’t stand it. He wanted to push him away.

He wanted to lean into him and never be let go of.

And that was the key reason he needed to run away and never look back. Because being with Greg, being held by Greg, was the most wonderful thing in the world.

Greg wrapped both arms around him, pulling him to rest against his chest. Mycroft paused for a second, needing to pull away. But he lifted his arms and wrapped them around Greg’s waist. He dropped his head onto Greg’s shoulder. He was such a good man. So kind. He gave his whole heart to everything he did. Just being in Greg’s presence made Mycroft feel better and good and accepted.

Mycroft would kill any man who laid a finger on him, he thought. He wouldn’t have remorse. He wouldn’t need to give it a second thought. And if he had to give up his own life to protect Greg’s… well, he’d do it, because the world needed more of him in the world, and not more of Mycroft.

He loved him.

His heart raced.

He couldn’t breathe. It was dizzying.

The thought smashed through his consciousness, bulldozing his resolve.

He loved him.

Everything about him. His heart, his head, the things he said, his actions. He wanted to protect him and shelter him from the darkness in the world. But it was impossible, because to do that, he had to protect him from himself. Mycroft was the darkness, and Greg was just light.

And like a moth, he was drawn to it.

He clung to him. Mycroft didn’t want to move away from him even for a second. They fit together, two opposites, moulding against one another. Being in his strong arms made the room spin. It made everything better.

He frowned as Greg pulled back, resting his hands on Mycroft’s shoulders. Mycroft gazed at him. He was certain Greg would be able to see all of his emotions swimming in his eyes. But even so, he couldn’t look away.

Greg cupped Mycroft’s cheek. Mycroft swallowed and closed his eyes. If Greg kissed him, he felt sure the world would stop.

Mycroft looked at him. He wanted it more than anything. He just needed that comfort, to be close to someone. Not just anyone. Only Greg. He leaned forward and Greg did the same. They were within a whisper of one another.

“Mycroft!” Sherlock shouted from the bedroom.

“I’m sorry,” Mycroft murmured, but he was most sorry for himself.

“It’s okay,” Greg whispered back. “Do you want me to check on him?”

“Please,” Mycroft said.

Greg squeezed his arm and went into the spare room. Mycroft rubbed his face. He walked to the table and poured him a glass of brandy from the decanter. He padded over to his usual chair and slumped into it. He sipped his drink, closing his eyes and touching his throat again.

He thought about Greg’s touch. He wished Sherlock hadn't been there so he could receive what he needed. He wanted to curl up in Greg’s arms, to feel safe.

And what would he do then? Accept his own feelings, knowing that it would eventually be forced to end? Or did he push Greg further away, knowing just how much that would hurt?

Greg walked back into the room. “Mycroft, I need a blanket,” he said.

“The airing cupboard in the bathroom,” he said quietly.

Greg walked towards him, kneeling down at his feet. Mycroft swallowed, gazing into his dark eyes.

“I’m taking Sherlock to mine. You’re not safe around him right now and he’s a liability to himself. I’m going to come around tomorrow to see you, okay?”

Mycroft nodded. Greg started to stand and Mycroft reached out to touch his shoulder. “I am terribly sorry, Greg. For involving you in this.”

“It’s alright,” Greg said. “We’ll solve this. Is your throat okay?”

“I’ve experienced worse.”

“By Sherlock?”

“In my work.”

Greg nodded and touched Mycroft’s arm. “I want to stay here with you. But I need to get Sherlock to mine. If you need anything, text me.”

Mycroft nodded and watched Greg as he went to the bathroom. Mycroft stood up and walked to the kitchen. He poured the remainder of his brandy down the sink and began to fill it with water so he could wash the glasses up.

“I’ll text you!” Greg called out. Then the door closed. Mycroft squeezed his eyes shut and leaned against the sink.

As he lay down on his bed, still dressed, he couldn’t wrap his head around what had happened. He felt dazed. He lifted his phone when he received a text.

  
MESSAGES Greg Lestrade  
12.03am: We’ve both got to bed.  
I think Sherlock has calmed down  
a bit. I hope you’re ok. Tell me  
when you’re free and I’ll pop over  
tomorrow.

 

Mycroft swallowed and plugged his phone in to charge. All night, he replayed his and Sherlock’s conversation, until it drove him mad. The only comfort came when he pictured Greg’s face, and was overwhelmed by the intensity of his own feelings for a man he could not - should not - have. 


	19. No Defence

**July 2006.**

**Location: Crusader House, Pall Mall, London.**

The bruises on his pale neck stood out as a wretched reminder of an animosity that could not be buried. He rubbed his shoulder, finding it ached still. Stood in front of the full-length mirror buttoning his shirt, even his clothing did not mask the disconsolate man breathing beneath the fine-woven material.

He could see a hollowness in his own eyes, an ache lingering there. He looked exhausted from a near-sleepless night. And though he could hide the bruises beneath his collar and tie, he knew he wasn’t in the right frame of mind to do anything with his day.

Nonetheless, he had responsibilities, and he would not neglect them. Rather than go to the office, he had Anthea cancel his appointments. He went to the Diogenes instead, where he locked himself in his private room and poured himself a cup of tea. He read his newspaper, his eyes skimming over every story for some sort of inspiration. Nothing was forthcoming.

And then there was the small matter of Greg’s texts. Mycroft had been eating his breakfast when Greg had contacted him asking when he should go to Crusader House. Mycroft had tried to discourage it. Greg said he was going over anyway. Mycroft gave in.

He went to the office at lunchtime, but didn’t stay long. He couldn’t concentrate on any one thing. He skipped from email to email, from Watchtower to news articles, from agendas to legislation and hardly read a word of any of it. It felt like he was being weighed down by his own thoughts and his own mind. He got home and yanked his tie off, hanging it up in his wardrobe. He sat down in his office. Then stood up and wandered to the kitchen, opening the fridge and the cupboards and then closing them all again. He sat in his seat. Opened his laptop, then slammed it closed.

He covered his face with his hands. There had been a lorry taking weapon parts to Iran, so feasibly there were more. But who on earth killed Tatiana Garzone? And now what? Someone was targeting him. The MORnetwork, whatever that was. And then there was Sherlock.

And Greg. Oh Greg, he couldn’t even bring himself to think about that man.

Frustrated, he got up and walked down the stairs, storming down the street. It was hot - too hot for his jacket and shirt, but he didn’t care. He knew Jim was tailing him in the car, keeping an eye on him, but Mycroft didn’t turn and look until he reached a pedestrian crossing. He pressed the button and crossed his arms, looking over his shoulder to glance at the car.

With a sigh, he wandered over to it, getting into the passenger seat.

“Where to?” Jim asked, turning the radio off.

“I don’t know.”

“Wish this heat would go away soon.”

“You must be used to it, having spent time in Afghanistan.”

“I never got used to it. I used to say I’d rather be fighting the Inuits. Except, I don’t think they wanted a war. Plus, they’d have an advantage.”

“Mmm,” Mycroft agreed. “The British army isn’t equipped for cold weather.”

“Yeah. Shit. What would happen if they were sent somewhere cold?”

“We’d struggle.” Mycroft glanced out of the window. “I should go back to work.”

“Yeah, probably. But you’ve done a six-day week.”

Mycroft nodded. “I’ll go back home,” he said.

Jim nodded, turning the car around and driving back to Crusader House. Mycroft trudged back up the stairs, letting himself into his flat. He turned his music on as he stood in the kitchen, beginning to prepare himself dinner. Mercifully, that proved to be a distraction.

He ate it on the balcony, watching people walking down the road, occasionally deducing them. It proved a blessed, albeit temporary, relief. That was until his dinner was finished and his own thoughts hit him like a tsunami.

He had to work. He had no other option. He asked his doorman not to let Greg in until exactly 8pm and did his best to catch up on what he’d missed during the day. He managed to get lost in it.

He looked up as the door opened and Greg walked in with a tired smile. The mere sight of him brought some peace to Mycroft’s mind. And though everything to do with Greg brought its own concerns, right now, Mycroft didn’t want to waste time thinking about it.

“How is Sherlock?” Mycroft asked. He could tell Sherlock hadn’t attacked Greg, and though that was a small mercy, it also made Mycroft’s heart ache to know that he was the prime target of Sherlock’s animosity.

“A pain in the arse,” Greg said. “I’ve confiscated a load of drugs from his flat, I’ve got them in my car at the moment.”

“It wasn’t heroin.”

“No,” Greg agreed. “Some sort of hallucinogenic. Are you alright?”

“Mm. Yes. Would you like to share a bottle of wine? I find I’m rather in need of some.”

Greg nodded. “Sure.”

Mycroft wandered into the kitchen, using his left arm to take out the bottle. He chose a light red, one easy to drink. He tensed as he felt Greg watching him from behind, but he didn’t turn around.

“Has anyone looked at your shoulder?” Greg asked.

“It isn’t injured,” Mycroft replied. He put the glasses on the kitchen table and poured out two large glasses of wine.

“So, can you tell me what happened last night?” Greg asked.

“It was a minor disagreement.”

“It didn’t look minor from where I was sitting.”

Mycroft sat down, pressing his lips together. He inhaled the wine, thinking he should have decanted it before Greg arrived. He took a long sip, the taste soothing on his palette. He should have been working. He had too much to do, far too much work, to spend time being sociable with Greg. The man expected too much of him, it was a waste of time. He touched his head. God, he needed to stop thinking. It all hurt too much.

“Come on,” Greg pressed. “What happened?”

“He came over asking for money.”

Greg sighed. “I’m sorry,” he said.

Mycroft frowned at him. “What on earth for?”

“He came to my office demanding cases. He was really manic. I’d have thought he was high if I didn’t know different.”

“He must have been taking them all day,” Mycroft said. He frowned and rubbed his head. “We had a disagreement and I wasn’t quick enough and he had me against the wall.”

“What were you disagreeing about?”

“Oh, what do Sherlock and I ever disagree about? Everything and anything.”

“But he’s done that before? Attack you like that?”

“Yes,” Mycroft replied, and Greg’s posture visibly tensed at that. “His intention was not to harm me, I assure you. It was a warning.”

“Warning to what?”

“Keep away. Ironic, really, when he was demanding money from me. I told him to find a job. He is under the impression he has one already.”

“Consulting detective,” Greg muttered.

“Quite. I told him to use his website to find himself cases. Apparently that was too much effort.”

Greg laughed and then stopped. “You got a headache?” 

“Work has been problematic.”

“Have you taken any painkillers?”

“It’s not a headache.”

“Too many thoughts?” Greg asked.

Mycroft swallowed and nodded. How did Greg know? It was baffling to think he understood, and sensed it. “I can’t turn it off. It’s noise, it’s exhausting.”

“Is it because you’re stressed?”

“Almost certainly.”

“What can I do?”

“There’s nothing.”

He glanced at Greg. His soft brown eyes were full of concern. “But I can turn it down, right?” Greg asked. “Just for a while.”

“We made a decision, Greg,” Mycroft warned, squaring his shoulders, preparing to push away from the table and to get as far away from him as possible.

“I know. We did. But we can change our minds. Let me help you.”

Mycroft studied him. He’d not wanted anything so much, not for a long, long time. Just being in his presence made everything still and easy. He thought that perhaps he could lose himself in Greg, and Greg would never judge him for it. He thought that Greg understood pain. He understood what it was like to isolate yourself to protect yourself.

Mycroft needed him.

He nodded. Consented.

Greg stood up and dragged the chair around the table so he could sit opposite him. His hands were on his knees, his posture open and welcoming. They held each other’s eyes.

“You said sex helps,” Greg said. “Takes your mind off it.” Mycroft nodded. “So, just let me be in charge, alright? Don’t think, just feel.”

Mycroft didn’t know what to say, and he closed his eyes in a silent surrender when Greg’s fingers touched his jaw, stroking against his skin. He hadn’t remembered until Greg held him that first time that it was so good to be touched. To feel wanted and appreciated.

“Just relax,” Greg whispered, putting a hand down on Mycroft’s thigh. Mycroft kept his eyes closed, focusing on his touch. He heard Greg’s breaths closer to him, and he parted his lips a little, preparing to feel Greg’s against his own.

When Greg kissed him, it was as though Mycroft had hit a pause button. Everything else stopped. He accepted the kiss, touching Greg’s neck as he deepened it. Even those stray thoughts that said ‘no’ and ‘we shouldn’t’ were easy to brush away. Because why shouldn’t they? Because Mycroft loved him? Because he would have to prepare for inevitable pain when it ended?

Any impending angst felt worth it, if it meant he got to enjoy Greg Lestrade for a little longer.

He pressed their tongues together, tasting the wine. It made him crave more and he shuffled closer, losing himself into it. He opened his eyes as Greg pulled back, his eyes dark. “Shall we go somewhere more comfortable?” he asked.

Mycroft nodded and stood up. He led the way to the settee. Although part of him wondered if they should take it through to his bedroom, he wasn’t sure he was ready to let it get so far. It would be harder to encourage Greg to leave in that case, and Mycroft wasn’t sure he would be able to say the words to stop him from staying the night. From never leaving again.

So he sat down on the sofa, and allowed Greg to guide him back into a kiss. And two words reverberated around his head as their lips met: Stop thinking.

And he did. He focused on Greg’s soft lips against his own, the way he smelt, all rich and soothing. How his hands felt against his face, on his neck and then hooking into his waistcoat. How warm it was when their bodies pressed together. Mycroft stroked the inside of Greg’s thigh, knowing how he liked it. Greg shuddered, and Mycroft could have smiled if he wasn’t so engrossed in the kiss.

He chased Greg’s mouth as Greg lay down on the sofa, pulling Mycroft on top of him. The kiss was molten desire, bubbling and constant. Greg bit Mycroft’s bottom lip and arousal coursed through him.

He allowed Greg to unfasten his belt, and he could have groaned in frustration as Greg broke the kiss so he could drop it onto the floor. Greg’s lips found a sensitive spot on his neck and Mycroft shivered in response.

“Use my mouth,” Greg murmured, licking his lips.

Those three words made Mycroft’s cock twitch in his trousers, but it seemed too much, far too dominating. “Greg-”

“I want you to. You like to dictate the pace, right?” Mycroft stared down at Greg’s chest, too ashamed to answer that yes, that was how he preferred it. “Just lose yourself,” Greg whispered. “It’s okay. It’s what I want.”

Mycroft stared at him, cupping Greg’s face. “Are you sure?”

Greg didn’t say anything, just pushed his hand under the waistband of Mycroft’s trousers. Mycroft gasped, pushing into his hand.

“I’m definitely sure,” Greg said, his voice husky. “I want you to stop thinking, as much as you can, and just have everything you want from me. Okay?” Mycroft couldn’t find the words to reply. He just pushed into Greg’s hand again, consumed by want. “That’s the way,” Greg replied with a smile and then pulled Mycroft back down into a heated kiss.

Mycroft wriggled out his trousers, sitting back so he could pull them off and drop them onto the floor. He straddled Greg’s hips, taking in his red lips, pink cheeks, his hair mussed. He was truly exquisite, and that he wanted Mycroft…

“You are gorgeous,” Greg said, and Mycroft wondered how they could possibly have been thinking the same thing about one another. And that it wasn’t possible. He had a long nose, and thin mouth. He knew he always looked so stern, and that time wasn’t being forgiving on his hairline or his waistline. But Greg appeared so genuine, that Mycroft couldn’t argue the point.

Greg pulled Mycroft’s underwear down, and shuffled so his mouth was almost level with Mycroft’s cock. He wrapped a hand around him and flicked his tongue out, licking the head. Mycroft gripped the settee, his thighs shaking.

He closed his eyes as Greg’s lips wrapped around his length. He had tingles all over his body, and he let Greg take him apart, bit by bit. He pushed forward, and Greg groaned, actually groaned, as though he too couldn’t get enough.

Mycroft rocked his hips, letting his mouth fall slack as he lost himself to pleasure. He thrust slowly into Greg’s hot, wet mouth, wondering what on earth he’d done to be given such a gift. He opened his eyes and was mesmerised by the sight, with Greg’s lips wrapped around his cock, his face and neck flushed. Greg seemed to want it as much as Mycroft did, and Mycroft cupped his cheek.

They held each other’s eyes and Mycroft felt it - the passion between them, so wonderful. Mycroft knew he hadn’t felt this way before. And in that moment he accepted his own surrender. He didn’t know what he meant to Greg. Whether it was only sex the other man wanted, or whether it was friendship and sex.

But he was lost in him regardless.

“Greg,” Mycroft whispered, staring down at him, rubbing his thumb against his cheekbone. He sped up his thrusts, never pushing too much. Greg groaned around him and Mycroft curled his fingers in his soft hair. He tried to warn Greg that he was close, but his orgasm took him by surprise, and his body tensed as he came. He gasped and closed his eyes, gripping onto the sofa. He fought to get his breath back, the room spinning behind his eyes.

He pulled back and settled into Greg’s arms, letting himself be held. He relaxed against Greg’s body, listening to the steady beat of his heart and absently stroking Greg’s shirt. He was so peaceful. It felt as though he belonged there. He hadn’t even realised he’d been so lonely before Greg came along. And Greg had begun to fill his life with laughter and much-needed distraction.

Oh, he was far, far too gone.

He sat up, his head still mercifully clear. He pulled his underwear up, and turned his attention to Greg.

“Okay?” Greg asked.

“It worked,” Mycroft whispered, finally finding his voice. He closed his eyes, overwhelmed by Greg’s ability to make everything feel okay. Greg’s hand found his arm, solid and comforting. “I truly did not think…”

“Shall I get our wine?” Greg asked.

Mycroft tilted his head back, his whole body like jelly. “Mm. Do.” He listened to Greg’s retreating footsteps and sighed, content.

He looked up again as Greg put the wine glasses down on the table, and he flicked his eyes to Greg’s crotch. “Would you like me to-”

“-No,” Greg replied. “Not that I don’t want you to, because you’re amazing. But I just want you to look after yourself right now.”

Mycroft nodded. “I don’t think I’m capable of movement right now, let alone thought.”

Greg sat down beside him, sipping his wine. Mycroft touched his face, feeling his soft cheek with the backs of his fingers. He leaned towards him and then hesitated. Was this too much? Did it blur too many lines between ‘meaningless sex’ and ‘something more’?

But Greg kissed him. Mycroft hummed, chasing his little gentle kisses. He smiled and turned to pick up his trousers. Greg made to move to sit on the opposite end of the settee, and that distance between them was unthinkable. Mycroft touched his thigh, wordlessly urging him to stay close. Greg nodded once and Mycroft let go of him to pull his trousers on.

Mycroft paused as he did the zip up, frowning to himself. Now what? He had already eaten dinner. He wasn’t sure he could manage a good conversation even if he tried. Cards again? He glanced around his living room, and his eyes fell on the piece of art that covered his television. A film. He hadn’t watched one in such a long time, and he knew it would be nice to sit with Greg and stay hidden from the world.

“Would you like to watch a film?” Mycroft asked.

“A film?”

Mycroft paused, unsure. “Yes, people do that on occasion, do they not?”

“Yeah, sometimes they do. What film were you thinking?”

“I’m not sure what I own. My parents insisted on buying me a collection for Christmas one year. I’ve never even taken them out of the plastic.”

Greg laughed. “Let me see what you’ve got then.”

Mycroft smiled at him and walked to his office, Greg following in his footsteps. He knelt down in front of his cabinet and took out the box containing his whole DVD collection. Greg took some of the films out, spreading them over Mycroft’s desk.

Ultimately, Greg chose Frankenstein. Mycroft would never have thought that would be his choice. It was old and black and white for a start. But he pulled the Ernst Ferdinand Oehme print down from the front of his television.

“So, Mycroft,” Greg said, smiling at him. “I know you like your horror books and stuff. But this film is from the 1930s. So if I laugh at it, I’m saying sorry now.”

Mycroft laughed and turned off the lights. He sat down beside Greg on the sofa, close enough that if he rested his arm on the back of the chair then he would be able to stroke Greg’s shoulder without stretching too far.

Greg leaned against the arm rest, looking as at ease as he would be in his own home. “You can stretch across the seat if you’d like,” Mycroft told him. “I know you often sit like it.”

Greg tilted his head. “You sure?”

“I wouldn’t have offered otherwise.”

Greg grinned and stretched out along the chair, resting his legs of Mycroft’s lap. It felt so right. Mycroft rested one hand on his thigh, settling into the settee.

“Let me know if I’m squashing you,” Greg said.

“I will.”

Mycroft pressed play and let out a slow breath, sipping his wine. He was immediately swept up in the music, reverberating through the speakers around the room. Out of the corner of his eye, he watched Greg.

Despite the film’s age, or perhaps because of it, it had a haunting quality. And Greg seemed enthralled. His lips were parted as he watched the screen, apparently riveted. Mycroft smiled to himself. Greg really was a surprising individual, and it seemed as though sometimes he surprised himself too.

In any of his wildest of imaginings, Mycroft would never have envisaged them watching a film from the 1930s together - and Greg enjoying it. Greg couldn’t do anything wrong. Every hour spent with him just made Mycroft care about him more.

After half an hour, Greg took a sip from his glass and frowned down at it, finding it empty. Mycroft chuckled. “Enjoying it?” he asked, as he topped up their glasses.

“Seems that way,” Greg said with a grin, turning his attention to Mycroft. “You?”

“Yes. It asks so many questions. At the most basic level, where do we have a right to give life?” And take it away, he added in his head. “Where does genius become madness? How do people become ‘bad’? How much power should one man have?”

Greg turned to him, reaching out and giving Mycroft’s arm one brief squeeze. “One man probably shouldn’t have a lot of power. But I don’t think you have a bad bone in your body. And I reckon even if you have a lot of power… well. Maybe I’m wrong, I dunno. But from what I know about you, I think you probably make difficult decisions so that they help the largest number of people.”

“How could you possibly know that?” Mycroft asked.

Greg shrugged one shoulder. “I don’t. But I feel safer knowing you’ve got my back.” He frowned. “You’ve got my back, yeah?”

Mycroft nodded. “Of course,” he said. “And not just because you’re willing to take care of Sherlock.”

Greg smiled and they turned back to the film. Mycroft kept his hand on Greg’s leg, and he settled back into watching.

The credits rolled, and they sat in silence. Mycroft squeezed Greg’s knee, smiling to himself.

“I wasn’t expecting to enjoy that,” Greg said.

Mycroft turned to him, smiling. He hadn’t expected it either, and it was a wonderful revelation. “I haven’t sat and watched a film all the way through for many years,” he said.

“Maybe we should do it another time.”

Mycroft nodded. “I would like that.”

Greg looked down at his watch. “I should go. Is everything okay?”

“It’s fine,” Mycroft said, suddenly tense. “I need to do some work before bed, but I’m sure it will come together.”

Greg stood up, stretching. “Call me if you need me.”

“I will,” Mycroft said.

Greg smiled at him. “I had a really good time tonight.” Mycroft nodded in response, glued to the chair, wondering, hoping, Greg was going to kiss him again. “Right. Goodnight.”

“Goodnight, Greg,” Mycroft murmured.

He watched over his shoulder as Greg went to the door and left. Mycroft found himself frowning. He had absolutely no idea if Greg wanted him as much as he did. It hurt to think perhaps he didn’t.


	20. Best Laid Plans

**August 2006.**

**Location: Coeur de Lion Offices, Mayfair, London.**

Mercifully, the heat wave came to an end. Mycroft relaxed, spending his days in a regular routine for once. Anthea kept him on-schedule and everything went to plan. But Mycroft knew that things did not stay that way forever. And indeed, Greg interrupted his schedule with a phone call.

“Mycroft, there’s been another break-in where the security has been turned off,” Greg informed him.

Mycroft paused, flicking his phone to loudspeaker and putting it down on the desk, beckoning Anthea over. She rose from the settee on the other side of the office, padding across the room to listen more closely.

“You believe it’s linked to the MORnetwork?” Mycroft asked.

“I don’t know,” Greg said. “I only just found out about it.”

“I will have some experts begin work immediately.” Mycroft shot Anthea a pointed look and she quietly left the room.

“If you hear anything I need to know right away,” Greg told him.

“I will share all I can.”

“I guess I’ll have to accept that, won’t I?”

“I will be in touch,” Mycroft told.

“Cheers,” Greg said and Mycroft hung up the phone call. He sat back in his chair and opened Watchtower, arranging for the police reports to be emailed to him every time they were updated. Moments later, Anthea and Danny were walking in.

“I need you to do some more magic on the CCTV cameras,” Mycroft said. “The shop is in Oxford Street, I believe.” He narrowed his eyes, reading the reports on his computer. He paused as he read the name of the shop. Grasty's shop. “The shop was owned by someone in the Russian Secret Services,” he muttered, biting his lip. He couldn’t imagine Dimitri Grasty was there at the time but still… “Believe me when I say he was cautious. I need you to be quick, Danny. If you could.”

Danny nodded. “Yes, sir,” he said, turning and leaving.

Anthea sat down opposite Mycroft, frowning. “Coincidence?” she asked.

“I doubt it.” Mycroft sat back in his chair and frowned at her. “Did you know that I used to follow procedures when it came to police reports? I used to go to the Commander and request them. Now I type it into my computer and… there they are.”

Anthea smiled, standing up as she began to organise the papers strewn over Mycroft’s desk. “I’m sure you did,” she said. “But then everyone gave you power.”

“Unintentionally, on many occasions. I don’t think any of them fully appreciate what it is we do here. But even so. Our job is to provide intelligence to the police, who carry out the arrests. That is why we have Executives Liaison Groups. We’re not… This isn’t our role, Anthea.”

“What are you saying?”

“I’ll give Greg Lestrade the space to organise his crime scene.”

“And if Dimitri Grasty is dead?” Anthea asked.

Mycroft glanced at her. “Then we panic.”

“I’ve never seen you panic, sir.”

Mycroft smiled. “Believe me, it will all be internalised.”

Mycroft grew impatient the longer the day wore on. He had been expecting Greg to contact him and he was most frustrated that hadn’t happened. It was one thing to promise to give him space. It was another thing altogether to be ignored by the man. Eventually he rang Greg, impatience getting the better of him. “How is the case?” he asked.

“We’ve got a name. Have you had any luck with the CCTV?”

“Not yet. Who was it?”

“Dimitri Grasty.” Mycroft bit his lip. “Mycroft? You there?”

“Yes. Dimitri Grasty? You’re certain?”

“Yeah. You alright?”

Mycroft stood up, typing out a quick message to Anthea to visit his office. “I need to go. Will I see you this evening?”

“You want me to come over?” Greg asked, surprised.

Mycroft blinked. The words had left his mouth before he’d even considered the idea. He had a lot of work to do, and he really shouldn’t be inviting company… “No, it’s fine.”

“You want me to come over?” Greg repeated. Mycroft shook his head and held his hand up to silence Anthea when she walked in. “I’ll come when I’ve finished work, alright?” Greg said, before Mycroft had a chance to respond.

“Very well,” Mycroft said stiffly. “See you this evening.”

“See you later.”

Mycroft hung up and slowly lowered his phone from his ear. “Grasty’s dead,” he told her, the consequences of that only beginning to sink in.

“And I take it you need to leave work on time today,” Anthea said, a small smile on her face. Mycroft raised his eyebrows and she immediately took the seat opposite the desk. “I’ve checked with Danny. He hasn’t got anything on the CCTV.”

“He seems to be failing a lot lately,” Mycroft muttered. “I need you to have a word with Hugh Seagroves for me. They need to cover up any secret service links with Grasty.” He licked his lips, frowning. “I am definitely the target, Anthea.”

She nodded. “That would be my assessment. Who?”

“Luck?”

“He doesn’t know about you.”

Mycroft frowned. “Or he does,” he murmured. “We have a leak.”

“Any ideas?”

“Not as yet. How many people in that room have dealt with one part of Indigo?”

Anthea quickly counted on her fingers. “With the people who tried investigating Nickolay and Tatiana Garzone, the ones who tailed Luck, the ones who translated Tatiana’s documents… 10 out of 12. Madhubala Selling and Lucas Pavey haven’t touched any of it.”

Mycroft nodded. “That narrows it down slightly. Of course, then there’s yourself, me and Danny. Sherlock.”

“No. Sherlock doesn’t know anything.”

“It’s Sherlock. He’d find a way.”

“He hasn’t broken in or stolen anything,” Anthea pointed out. “I’d know if he had.”

Mycroft nodded. “Greg doesn’t know enough.”

“He wouldn’t leak anything anyway.”

“I can’t rely on that.”

Anthea frowned, but nodded. “So, someone wants you dead?”

Mycroft paused. “No. No, if they did, then they would have tried it already. They want something else from me. Luck wants something else from me.” He stood up, checking the time. “I’m going home.”

“Home, sir?”

“Yes. Apparently I have a guest coming this evening. I’ll work from my office.”

Anthea smiled. “Loretta’s got a casserole in the fridge for you.”

Mycroft frowned. “Why on earth does she have that?”

“She made three. One for me, one for you and one for her. Apparently we’ve all been working too hard.”

Mycroft smiled. “I don’t know what I did to deserve that,” he said.

Anthea laughed. “Just say ‘thank you’ and be gracious.”

Mycroft nodded his head. “I think I can manage that,” he said. He collected his umbrella and left.

The casserole only needed to be put into the oven, giving Mycroft enough time to shower and change. He looked at himself in the mirror and frowned. He took his jacket and waistcoat off. He had no need to be so formal, not with Greg coming round. And Greg had seen wearing much less. He rolled his eyes. For goodness sake. He had to stop thinking about having sex with Greg. That was not the intention. Tonight was all about eating some food and… and what?

Mycroft glared at his own reflection and turned and marched out of his bedroom. He sat down in his office, communicating with Hugh Seagroves via encrypted emails.

On his notepad, he wrote down a list of every one of his employees’ names.

_Assistant: Anthea Boyette.  
_ _Anthea’s Assistant: Loretta Freeman.  
_ _Drivers: Jim Braum, Max Karzai, Malcolm Dawn.  
_ _IT: Danny Finck.  
_ _Night shift staff: Milburn Barturen, Joshua Kaner.  
_ _Translator: Elwira Mündel.  
_ _Former MI5 agents: Madhubala Selling, Erin Bareford, Lucas Pavy.  
_ _Former MI6 agents: Jolana Pieczynski, Bill Tomlinson, Maisie Facer, Stewart Trease.  
_ _Field workers: Cliff Crenshaw, Edward Palfrey._

Mentally, he crossed Madhubala Selling and Lucas Pavey off the list. Erin Bareford was Hadrian Kirkcudbright’s former assistant, and probably top of the suspect list. She almost certainly told Rickard Luck about the investigation while Hadrian was still alive. Danny Finck ranked highly too, although Mycroft had a feeling he would have known already if it were Danny.

He looked up at the knock on the door. “Come in!” Mycroft called out. He blinked as Greg opened the door, smiling at him.

“I lost track of time,” Mycroft said, frowning down at his pocket watch.

“It’s fine,” Greg said. “Anything new on our CCTV?”

Mycroft led him from his office, closing the door behind him. “Not as yet.” He guided him to the kitchen, kneeling down in front of the oven to take the casserole dish out. “Would you like a drink?”

“Coffee?” Greg asked. “I’ll make it, it’s alright.” Mycroft opened his mouth to protest, but Greg was already taking mugs out of the cupboard and turning the kettle on.

With an amused smile, Mycroft took his cafetiere out and placed it down in front of him. Greg would not be making them instant coffee this time.

Greg lifted it up, assessing it. “I don’t think I know how to use this,” he admitted.

“Quite alright,” Mycroft said. “It’s very simple.” He stood behind Greg, reaching into the cupboard to take the bag of coffee out. He inhaled a little, catching the scent of Greg’s aftershave. He’d changed it to something fresher, something like lavender and birch. But still, lingering under that was his own familiar scent. His fabric softener and coffee. “Put some of the coffee in…” Mycroft said, watching as Greg spooned it in. “And once the water has boiled, add the water and put the lid on.”

Greg laughed. “I can manage that.”

Mycroft laughed and touched Greg’s back as he opened another cupboard. He found he wasn’t resisting Greg’s presence in his kitchen anymore. It felt normal, almost as though he was supposed to be there. Which was wrong, very wrong. Mycroft took out some of the plates, dishing up the food.

“That looks great too,” Greg said.

“Apparently my colleagues think I work too hard,” Mycroft said. “But when this is the reward, I don’t complain too much.”

Greg laughed and inspected the coffee. “Can I plunge this now?” he asked.

Mycroft checked how many granules were still floating to the bottom and nodded. “Yes.”

They sat down together at the kitchen table, Mycroft waiting for Greg to have his first mouthful before he joined him in eating.

“Oh this is good,” Greg said. “Please pass my compliments to the chef.”

“I will.”

They concentrated on eating, before Mycroft finally decided to explain the full extent of what had happened. He thought he had a right to know. “Greg?” he asked.

“Mmmhmm?”

“I must tell you something.”

Greg looked up. “What’s up?”

“Dimitri Grasty was investigating the murder of Tatiana Garzone. Remember the Russian woman your team found dead at a bus stop?”

Greg stared at him. “What?”

“Hadrian Kirkcudbright, the document at the National Archives and now Dimitri Grasty. I’m beginning to see a pattern emerge with a common denominator.”

“And what’s that?”

“Me.”

Greg watched him for a minute, his fork hovering in midair. “Are you in danger?” he asked. “Do you need more security or something?”

“I am not in danger. Not as far as I’m aware.”

Greg frowned and finished his food. “It’s a lot to take in, Mycroft.”

“I know.”

Greg frowned. “We’ve got some leads to follow tomorrow. Some guy who bought the cafe where they shot Garzone from, but no one seems to know who he is.”

“What was his name?”

“Just ‘Seb’.”

Mycroft shook his head. “That means nothing to me.”

Greg rubbed his face. “God, this case."

“How can I help?” Mycroft asked, studying him.

“Just keep working on your end,” Greg said.

Mycroft nodded, standing up and carrying their plates to the sink. He chewed his lip as he turned the taps on. Was he in danger? It was a possibility, he supposed. He thought he had been ahead of the game the whole time. But what if he wasn’t? What if he wasn’t the player, but the played? Dr Black, unwittingly inviting his charming guests round to his stately home, only to be killed off in the dining room with the lead piping…

He almost shook his head at his own stupidity. It would be the revolver, not the lead piping.

Greg stood up, and leaned against the kitchen counter beside him. Mycroft glanced at him as he poured in the washing up liquid. Now what? he wanted to ask. But Greg just reached for him, cupped his jaw and kissed him.

Mycroft froze, squeezing the bottle a little too tightly. He couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe. Greg’s eyes were closed, but Mycroft’s were very much open. He could make out every line on Greg’s face, every pore, every blemish. He pulled back, putting the bottle down on the side. They stared at each other, eyes connected.

Mycroft kissed him again, full of surety this time. He pushed Greg up against the counter, wrapping his arms around his neck. He didn’t even have to tell himself to switch his damned head off, it had happened almost on instinct.

His body was moulding against Greg’s as he kissed him deeply, flicking their tongues together. Greg made sweet little sounds, holding Mycroft close as they kissed.

Arousal was hot and tight in Mycroft’s trousers and he pulled back. “Oh,” he breathed out, staring at him. He glanced at the sink and turned the taps off before it could overfill. He turned back to Greg, who tugged him closer.

Mycroft melted back into him, sharing soft pecks, but the seconds apart had woken him up. “This wasn’t-” he tried to say, but Greg’s kisses were constant, not giving him time to stop speaking. “This wasn’t-mmff, Greg.”

Greg pulled him close and Mycroft shuddered, both of their cocks pressed hard together through their clothing.

“What?” Greg asked.

“This wasn’t the plan,” Mycroft said.

“I know,” Greg breathed out. And Greg leaned back, closing his eyes. Mycroft watched him, waiting for him to make the next move. He didn’t know how to lead anymore. He had to be led and be taken. “I know,” Greg repeated. “I know, I know, I know, this wasn’t the plan, but God, Mycroft.”

Mycroft nodded and touched Greg’s neck. He couldn’t let him go, no matter how he tried. And he had tried. “I know,” he whispered. “I know.”

They continued to gaze at each other. Mycroft’s pulse was racing. From beneath his fingers, he could feel Greg’s heart rate had increased too. His resting heart rate was 74. It was a little elevated now.

Mycroft smiled, almost disbelieving, as the words left his mouth. “Just once more.”

Greg grinned. “Yeah, just once more. I mean, it doesn’t hurt, right?”

“On the contrary, Greg. If it hurts, you’re doing it wrong.”

Greg laughed and it lit his whole face. Mycroft couldn’t help but smile in return, kissing him again, their mouths still curved upwards.

“But what about the washing up?” Greg asked, his lips moving against Mycroft’s.

Mycroft almost laughed, pulling him even closer. “Bugger the washing up,” he said, nibbling his bottom lip and kissing him hard.

Greg wrapped his arms firmly around Mycroft’s waist, and they began to back out of the room together, Mycroft nuzzling and kissing his neck. Oh, he was perfect. And the word ‘perfect’ was hyperbolic in itself, but there was no one on the entire face of the earth, never had been, who was so supremely wonderful as Greg Lestrade.

Mycroft could hardly bear to take his hands off him as Greg began to toe his shoes off, and Mycroft nipped his jaw, stroking his hands over his shoulders and down his arms.

“Where’d you want me?” Greg breathed out, brushing his lips against Mycroft’s cheek.

“Get on the sofa. And take your jeans off now.”

Greg grinned, unbuttoning them. “Desperate, Mycroft?”

“I’m not in the mood to wait.”

Greg groaned and kissed Mycroft again. Mycroft hummed into the kiss, desperate to get him out of his clothes. He pulled the zip down, hooking his fingers in the waistband of both his jeans and boxers and pushing them down as much as he could over Greg’s hips. They took a few strides towards the sofa, breaking the kiss for the briefest of moments before indulging again.

Greg stepped away from him, pushing his jeans and boxers down until they pooled at his ankles, leaving himself unabashed and naked from the waist down. Mycroft stared at him with parted lips, his eyes dropping from his face down to his defined hips, his hard cock, his strong thighs, dusted with hair. Greg stepped out of his trousers and sat down on the sofa, staring up at Mycroft through half-lidded eyes.

His hair was mussed, his lips still wet. He wrapped his hand around his cock, his chest rising as he took a deep breath.

“Stop that,” Mycroft murmured, staring back at him, mesmerised.

“Make me,” Greg challenged, his voice soft. Mycroft strode towards him, straddling Greg’s lap. He curled his fingers in his greying hair, tugging his head back. He held his eyes, keeping Greg’s head tilted back even as he pushed for a kiss. Mycroft lowered his head, nudging Greg’s shirt aside so he could close his lips around his neck, sucking a bruise into his skin.

It was possessive - almost too much - but he couldn’t fight the desire to claim him, mark him as his even if it couldn’t be further from the truth. For the here and now, and that was all that mattered, Greg was as much Mycroft’s as he possibly could be. Later Mycroft would watch him walk back through the front door and he wouldn’t argue about it. But for now, he’d have him and take him and enjoy every moment spent with him.

“Christ Mycroft,” Greg groaned, his fingers fumbling with Mycroft’s own trousers, pushing them down with his underwear. Mycroft helped him, pressing forward until their cocks rubbed together. Mycroft kissed his jaw, wrapping a hand loosely around their cocks. He rocked his hips once and their mouths met in a desperate kiss. Greg’s own hand joined Mycroft’s.

They pressed their foreheads together, Mycroft’s eyes falling closed as he let pleasure take over every one of his senses. Every inch of him cried out for more and Greg fulfilled every desire, every need. He turned his attention to Greg, cataloguing his groans as Mycroft moved his hand. How could something that would only ever end in pain feel so right? So good.

Greg looked just as lost as Mycroft felt, his cheeks red and pupils blown. “Mycroft, you’re unbelievable,” he whispered. Mycroft could only kiss him again in response, shuddering. He was overcome by everything Greg was - everything they had. And even though what they had was nothing but sex and nothing but friendship, it was _everything_. It was enough. It had to be enough, because no matter what Mycroft felt for him, no matter how much Mycroft cared for him, it was all they could have.

But oh, _everything_. Just Greg, kissing him and touching him and bringing him closer, and closer to the edge. Mycroft gasped as he came, pressing his cheek to Greg’s forehead as he was overawed by the intensity of his orgasm. He could only sigh as Greg reached his own release over their joined hands. Mycroft allowed a few seconds to stay sitting there, as content as he was, before moving back.

“No, no, you don’t need to move,” Greg said, holding his hand to Mycroft’s back. “Not yet.”

Mycroft sighed, dropping his head to Greg’s shoulder. Greg’s hand was stroking his back, keeping him relaxed. Mycroft kissed the side of his neck. He was reluctant to move, but his thighs were beginning to ache. With a reluctant groan, he sat down on the sofa, taking a handkerchief out of his pocket to clean himself. He glanced over at Greg. He looked thoroughly debauched, with a damp hand and their ejaculate on his shirt. “Would you like to borrow a shirt?” he asked.

Greg laughed. “Yeah, that was a bit messy… Please. Thanks.”

Mycroft leaned towards him, smiling as Greg kissed him. He stood up, pulling his trousers up, before wandering to his bedroom. He unbuttoned his shirt, dropping it into the dirty linen basket. He went into the en-suite to wash his hands, almost laughing at how out of place his hair had got. He patted it down and put a fresh shirt on. He flicked through his wardrobe until he found a shirt he thought may fit Greg, who had much broader shoulders than he did.

He carried it out and Greg stripped off his own shirt, leaving Mycroft staring at him, quickly assessing every inch of his skin. His nipples were still hard, and he had dark chest hair, beginning to grey now. He had one scar on his stomach, a slash from a knife, more than likely. It probably didn’t go deep enough to touch any nerves or organs, but enough to have been a horrific injury at the time.

Greg put the new shirt on, and Mycroft sat down beside him. They were still basking in the afterglow, sharing a lazy kiss.

“Can’t blame us for doing this when it’s so good,” Greg said.

Mycroft laughed and Greg pressed a small to kiss to the corner of his lips. Mycroft couldn’t help but kiss him again. He explored Greg’s body, his fingers tracing up his arms, squeezing his biceps. He stroked his neck, letting his fingertips dip beneath the collar of his shirt. He brushed the backs of his fingers against his chiselled jaw, feeling the beginnings of stubble. He let his hands cup his face and reach into his hair. And Greg was exploring him back, and Mycroft couldn’t bring himself to end it.

It was just kissing. But it was kissing as though they belonged to each other. As though the mark Mycroft had left on Greg’s neck was as permanent as a tattoo. And Mycroft only wished to feel as though he belonged to someone too, as though he was the one who was safe and secure. But he didn’t.

Kissing Greg was like throwing himself off bridge and into a river swarming with alligators. And he would do that for Greg. If Greg said jump, he’d asked how high.

And for that reason, he had to deny him. He had to refuse a relationship and deny his feelings and try to lock them away. He refused to let someone have control over him like that.

He refused to feel the pain of losing someone again.

Greg kissed him gently and Mycroft looked at him. He was sure that if he let their lips touch again then he would be far too gone. “Greg, I am so very sorry but I need to do some work.”

Greg nodded. “Yeah, that’s fine, I understand.”

Mycroft squeezed Greg’s shoulder, letting his hand linger there. “This wasn’t the last time,” he murmured, glancing at Greg’s concerned face.

Greg frowned. “It… wasn’t?”

“Was it, Greg? Can you honestly say it was the last time?”

“I know I don’t want it to be,” Greg admitted. “It’s good, Mycroft. It’s really, really good.”

Mycroft nodded, dropping his hand. “I know.”

“Just sex?” Greg asked.

“Yes, of course.”

“I feel like we’ve had this conversation a few times now, Mycroft.”

Mycroft smiled stiffly. “I’m aware. I rarely change my mind.”

Greg paused. And then he leaned forward, his lips brushing against Mycroft’s ear. “Good,” he whispered, and his voice made Mycroft shiver. “Because I want to feel you inside me.”

Mycroft caught his breath, the images flashing before his eyes. Oh yes, he craved that too. He couldn’t think of anything more wonderful. Greg’s thumb brushed against his lip, and Mycroft was grateful for it, because he couldn’t think of a word to say.

“I’ll leave that thought with you for another time,” Greg said, his voice husky.

He started to move back, but Mycroft tugged him close, kissing him with everything he had. He noticed for the first time how bruised his lips felt from kissing but it was as though he could never get enough. But he stopped before he drowned in him and dragged him off to his bedroom.

“Goodnight, Greg,” he murmured.

Greg stared at him for a second before beginning to grin, his face radiating with warmth. “Don’t work too hard,” he said. Mycroft watched him go with a soft smile on his face, turning his head to lower his eyes over his back and his backside as he went. He was still smiling as he washed up their dishes.

He slept peacefully that night, despite the chaos of his work life. 


	21. Hit And Run

**August 2006.**

**Location: Coeur de Lion Offices, Mayfair, London.**

Mycroft went to work in a good mood, his head clearer than it had been in months. Somehow, despite the uncertainty revolving around Rickard Luck and Operation Indigo, he was content with his work.

He sat down at his desk, accepting his morning tea from Loretta before sitting down to check his emails and Watchtower reports. Anthea stood by the door, agendas and paperwork cradled in her arms.

Mycroft sipped his tea and frowned. “Something new?” he asked, tasting it.

“Loretta’s husband visited Sri Lanka and brought it back for her.”

“It’s nice,” Mycroft murmured. He put his mug down. “Tell me about my day.”

Anthea smiled and took a seat on the other side of the desk, spreading the papers out. “This morning you have a couple of hours of free time.”

Mycroft raised his eyebrows. “Well, that’s a revelation.”

Anthea smiled. “I’m good to you,” she said, her eyes sparkling. “There were many demands on your time, and I even refused a meeting with Mr Seagroves.”

Mycroft laughed. “You are a fine woman,” he said, returning to his tea. “What next?”

“Lunch with Sylvia Ross. And then Toby Goff of the CIA would like to have a video conference with you at 3pm this afternoon.”

“What does Sylvia want?”

“Just a catch-up.”

“With both of us?”

“I was invited,” Anthea admitted.

“Come. We’d enjoy your company.”

Anthea smiled. “Thank you, Mr Holmes. After Mr Goff, you do have some free time, but may I advise you to use it to read through the the recent intelligence reports coming into MI5? You have a busy day tomorrow, and I’m not sure you’ll have time to read them before your meeting with Nadia Swift.”

Mycroft frowned. “I don’t know much about her. What can you tell me?”

“I don’t know a lot, except Mrs Ross likes her.”

“How long as she been Deputy Director General at MI5 for?”

“Only two days.”

Mycroft nodded. “I can only assume Hugh Seagroves put her in touch with me.”

“Yes, sir. I believe so. That’s all so far today.”

“That’s everything? Good.” Anthea made to stand up, but Mycroft held his hand out. “Just a moment,” he said. “I’ve been thinking this morning that we almost certainly have a leak in this office. Rather than hang everyone out of the window by their ankles, I think we should exploit it.”

“What do you have in mind?”

“I genuinely believe whoever is leaking documents is doing so to Rickard Luck. And so.” Mycroft picked up a piece of paper and handed it to Anthea. “Can you find a way to leak this to our team? I don’t care how you do it, but be subtle. Someone will leak it to Luck and I’m sure he will make himself known to me.”

“You want to draw him out,” Anthea said, reading Mycroft’s paper. She frowned at him. “By saying you think the Government is missing a trick in its weapons manufacturing?”

Mycroft nodded. “I’m appealing to his ego. I’m convinced he has a substantial one.”

Anthea smiled and folded the paper up. “Leave it to me,” she said.

“It goes without saying that we will have to keep very sensitive information within these four walls for the time being. I need you to maintain a steady stream of information and work for our staff, but we need to be cautious.”

“Will you be leaking more?” Anthea asked.

Mycroft nodded. “I can’t think of an alternative.”

“I agree.” Anthea stood up. “If that’s all, I will leave you to your free morning.”

Mycroft smiled at her. “It’s appreciated.”

Anthea nodded and left him to it. Mycroft glanced around his office and leaned back in his chair, closing his eyes. He organised his day in his own mind, prioritising what he would need to remember.

He and Anthea met Mrs Ross at Claridge’s later that day. She was sat in the centre of the room, already sipping a cup of tea, dressed in a matching lilac jacket and skirt. She beamed at them as they walked in, and stood up, kissing Anthea on the cheek and letting Mycroft kiss her hand. “Look at you both,” she said, turning to the waiter. “Three cream teas, please,” she said. One peppermint tea, lemon and ginger for myself. And Mycroft.” Sylvia paused, frowning at him. “Earl Grey?”

Mycroft nodded. “Yes, that would be splendid.”

The waiter smiled and left. Anthea laughed. “Am I really that predictable?” she asked.

“Anthea, you’ve drunk peppermint tea ever since I’ve known you.” Sylvia turned to Mycroft. “How are you?”

“Very well thank you.”

She narrowed her eyes at him, a playful smile on her lips. “You look it too. How are things?”

Mycroft nodded. “Very well.”

“You look rested,” Sylvia said. “You haven’t looked so rested in a long time. What’s happened?”

Mycroft glanced at Anthea and they both laughed. “Nothing’s happened,” he said.

“Not between the two of you?” Sylvia asked.

Mycroft opened his mouth and closed it again. “I. No. Mrs Ross, I realise you expect something but… I’m gay.”

Sylvia blinked at him. “Oh,” she said. “Ah well, is there a lovely gentleman who has caught your eye?”

Mycroft smiled. “You’re a hopeless romantic, Mrs Ross.”

“I am, dear,” she said. “I was a much happier woman when I was settled and married. Better at my work too, but I am a traditionalist.”

The stands with sandwiches and scones and cakes were all brought over. They each poured their teas out. Sylvia pursed her lips. “I have something for you, Mycroft.”

“Oh?”

“The Prime Minister has found a few million pounds for the Security Services and there’s a bit of a fight for funding going on.”

Mycroft frowned. “I hadn’t heard that.”

“Of course not,” Sylvia said. “Because I’m in charge of that funding and unlike apparently everyone else, I know how to keep my mouth closed.” She smiled. “Unless it suits me, of course.”

“Is the funding for anything in particular?”

“Surveillance.”

Mycroft frowned. “Surveillance on whom?”

“You won’t like it admittedly,” Sylvia said. “It conflicts with many of your views on privacy.”

“Then why are you telling me?”

“Because I don’t want the techniques the Prime Minister is willing to fund falling into the wrong hands.”

Mycroft frowned. “Whose hands are the wrong hands?”

Sylvia shook her head. “Trust me, you’re better off not knowing. Put in a bid, Mycroft. Ask for the funds for your office. I don’t care what project you want to fund. It has to be surveillance-based, but come up with something innovative and do it fast.”

“What happens if I don’t?”

“Some of the measures already proposed make my toes curl,” Sylvia said. “And I believe in the security of this nation above all other things. But privacy does matter. Give me an alternative project to fund.”

Mycroft nodded. “I will,” he said. “I’m sure we can come up with something suitable.”

“I will email you a list of the parameters.”

“How long do we have?” Anthea asked.

“Three weeks. Perhaps four at a push. I know that will mean some long hours, but honestly, this is the first opportunity I’ve had to tell you about this. And so. Onto more positive topics. Are we all going to Hugh Seagroves’ fundraising party in December?”

“Are we?” Mycroft asked, turning to Anthea.

“I don’t know yet. I received the invitations but I don’t like to RSVP straight away.”

“What’s the cause?” Mycroft asked.

“The Wellcome Trust.”

“I suppose I can help with the silent auction, if nothing else. A day of being chauffeured around London by Max or Malcolm would perhaps make a suitable prize.”

Anthea nodded. “I’ll make a note of it.”

They stayed and finished their teas before going their separate ways. Mycroft spoke to Toby Goff about some plans for the CIA’s black sites, and he informed Mycroft a terrorist suspect had been taken through Glasgow International Airport. He then sat down to read the paperwork in order to prepare for meetings the following day.

He advised on several issues throughout the day. A hospital had feared someone was suffering with avian flu, while a terrorist threat had to be dealt with in Birmingham. Mycroft rang Greg while he was in the car on his way home from work that evening, wondering if he’d had any more luck with Dimitri Grasty. The phone didn’t ring. It went straight to voicemail.

He frowned but thought nothing of it as he got home and prepared himself some dinner. He had a bath with a glass of wine. He hadn’t felt so relaxed for such a long time. He couldn’t help but think it was Greg’s influence. It was alarming how easily he had been taken in by the man, but he found he didn’t have the willingness to fight it, not anymore, no matter how he tried.

He read a few chapters of Melmoth The Wanderer before bed and then turned in for the night.

He text Greg once in the morning, asking if he’d had any luck with Dimitri Grasty. After three hours, he’d still not received a response. Mycroft rolled his shoulders as he frowned down at his phone. He was used to Greg replying fairly quickly to his texts, and it was unusual that it had taken more than 24 hours for him to respond to the missed call.

He could just ask Anthea to find out, he supposed, but he didn’t want to encourage her suggestive smiles and raised eyebrows. He put his phone down again, but concern was beginning to gnaw away at him. It was unusual. Too unusual. Begrudgingly, he text Sherlock.

 

MESSAGES  
09.41am: Is DI Lestrade well?  
M

 

MESSAGES      Sherlock Holmes  
09.43am: No. In hospital. His  
car was shunted into the Thames.  
SH

 

Mycroft’s blood ran cold in an instant. He stared at the message in disbelief, his heart sinking. In hospital meant he wasn’t dead, but… He had no idea how he didn’t know about this. He’d reduced his surveillance on Greg a year ago, and yet, and yet… He should have known.

 

MESSAGES  
09.44am: And you didn’t think to  
let me know? M

 

MESSAGES      Sherlock Holmes  
09.45am: Going soft, brother? SH

 

MESSAGES Sherlock Holmes  
09.45am: But I think he might be  
in a bad way. It’s not like him  
not to go to work. SH

 

Mycroft rolled his eyes and put his phone down on the desk. He took a deep breath. He sent a quick message to Anthea to find out Greg’s condition, trying his best not to panic. His car had been shunted into the Thames. To Mycroft, it sounded like the worst thing imaginable. To be confined in a car and then sinking… sinking…

He rang Sherlock. And again. And again until he finally picked up. “What?” he snapped.

“What happened?” Mycroft asked.

Sherlock groaned. “For God’s sake, ask him yourself.”

“Sherlock.”

“I got to the Yard. Donovan said he’d been knocked into the Thames and had a broken wrist. He won’t be at work for a while and she won’t work with me, so I left.”

“Is he alright?”

“He has a broken wrist.”

“I see.”

“And…” Sherlock stopped. “Nothing.”

“And what?”

“Donovan said they went to a warehouse to track down Sebastian Moran. We think Moran, the man who owned the café, killed Kirkcudbright and Grasty. There was a poster, and it had some sort of threat to Lestrade on it. I’ll text you the picture.”

“A threat?” Mycroft asked, his body tense.

“Looks like it. Probably enough of a warning to make it worth keeping him away from his flat for a few days. I imagine someone may try to target him again.”

Mycroft looked up at the knock on the door. “How bad is he, Sherlock?” he asked, holding his hand up to Anthea as she walked in.

“See him yourself,” Sherlock said and hung up. Mycroft rolled his eyes and put the phone down. “Any news?” he asked Anthea.

“They’ve just released him from the hospital,” she said.

Mycroft felt a strange sense of relief come over him at that, and he let out a breath he hadn’t realised he was holding. “I see.”

“I’ve just managed to make contact with a…” She looked at a piece of paper. “Police Constable Brockhurst said Sergeant Donovan has given Lestrade her old phone. You can reach him on this number.”

Anthea put the piece of paper down in front of Mycroft. “Thank you,” he said. “That was very quick work.”

She nodded. “I try,” she said. “I’ve rung the Commander at the Yard. I assume you want updates from the investigation?”

“Yes. Thank you.” Mycroft waited for her to leave before calling Max. Normally he would have asked for Jim Braum to pick Greg up, but he was on holiday with his new wife.

And then he called Greg. “Lestrade,” he answered, and just the sound of his voice made Mycroft relax a little. He sounded exhausted, but his voice was a welcome sound nonetheless.

“Greg, I understand you encountered a problem at work. How are you?”

“I’m fine.”

Mycroft frowned. “Sherlock thinks otherwise.”

“I’m fine, Mycroft. How’d you get this number?”

“Where are you?”

Greg sighed. “I left the hospital a while ago. I’m at home.”

“A car will be round in half an hour. You are staying with me. Sherlock’s orders," he said, because God forbid Greg realise just how concerned Mycroft was. 

“Since when do I take orders from Sherlock?”

Mycroft pursed his lips. “Very well. My orders.”

“I’m not taking orders from you either,” Greg said.

“Oh, really now? That certainly wasn’t the case the other night.”

“That’s different,” Greg mumbled.

Mycroft shook his head. “Don’t make me beg. Get in the car.”

“Can I make you beg later?”

“Unlikely,” Mycroft replied, but he was beginning to smile. If Greg were able to joke then his injuries couldn’t be as bad as he was led to believe.

“But not out of the question, yeah?”

“Are you coming?” Mycroft asked.

“Yeah. I’ll see you later then.”

“Allow the driver to pack you a bag. See you this evening.” Mycroft hung up the phone. He opened the door to his office, much to the surprise of his employees. He walked into Anthea’s office and she stared up at him from her desk. Mycroft stood in the doorway for a moment before stepping in and closing the door. “I.” He frowned to himself, not really sure what he was after. “I need the CCTV from the Thames yesterday afternoon,” he finally said.

“I know,” she said, looking at him. “I’m working on it.”

“I hadn’t asked…”

“I know. I knew you’d want it. Are you okay?”

Mycroft nodded. “Yes,” he said, frowning to himself. “Of course. I’d like it as soon as possible.”

“I promise. As soon as I have it, it will be right with you.”

“Right. Of course.”

“I’ll ask Loretta to prepare a coffee for you, shall I?”

“Yes. Please.” Mycroft wandered back to his office. He felt as though he was acting on some sort of auto-pilot. He sighed as he sat down at his desk. He glanced at the picture Sherlock sent him, of a definite warning written onto a poster in red paint. _Some other time, Detective Inspector_ , it said 

He could only wait for news, trying his best to distract himself with work. But whatever he did, his mind drifted to Greg. Even though he was alive, the terror remained. The fear that if he’d died…

Mycroft swallowed. No. He couldn’t allow himself to consider how painful that would have been.

It took an hour before Anthea finally had the videos for him. They sat down in front of the laptop together. “There’s only two angles,” Anthea said, opening the first up. Mycroft watched as a black SUV tore down the street, slamming into the side of Greg’s car. But the cars went out of frame before they reached the Thames.

Mycroft bit his lip. Greg was lucky the car hit him on the passenger side or his injuries could have been far worse. “And the second?” he asked.

Anthea clicked to open it. It showed the moment Greg’s car fell into the water, tipping forward and then beginning to sink. Mycroft swallowed, counting the seconds as he waited for Greg to emerge. “Good God,” he muttered, staring at the vehicle. Even though he knew Greg escaped eventually, he could only imagine the fear he must have felt, trapped like that.

Anthea nodded. “I know.”

“I want updates every hour,” Mycroft said, his voice tight. “Even if it’s to tell me nothing has changed.”

“I will.”

“Go now,” Mycroft said. He waited a few moments before he rang for New Scotland Yard.

“Sergeant Dimmock,” the man answered with a casual drawl.

“Sergeant. My name is Mycroft Holmes. I believe your Commander informed you I would be making contact?”

“Yeah, he did. What’s up?”

“I need everything from your investigation into DI Lestrade’s accident to be sent directly to Anthea Boyette in my office. And I mean everything.”

“Look, I don’t know who you are, but I’ve got this.”

“No,” Mycroft said firmly. “No, I don’t think you have. And you will follow this order or you will find yourself in rather a lot of trouble. I am an important man with important contacts. And DI Lestrade’s accident is my number one priority. Am I making myself understood?”

“Yes, you are, quite clear.”

“Good. Send everything you have to Anthea. Her contact details should be in your inbox. Good day, Sergeant.” Mycroft hung up the phone. He tapped his fingers on the desk.

A few hours later, he left the office, unable to concentrate on any thought but Greg. He hated how much he’d taken over his thoughts, but he just had to see him for himself.

* * *

It was unusual arriving home so early. He checked the living room but found it was empty. He knocked on the door to the spare room. “Come in,” Greg called out.

Mycroft opened it and stepped in. Greg was lying on the bed watching the television. His wrist was in a cast, bruises beginning to appear on his face. Mycroft catalogued the rest of his injuries. “How are you?” he asked.

“Bit of pain but not too bad considering. How did you find out?” Greg asked.

“Sherlock went to New Scotland Yard in the morning and was informed. I would have contacted you earlier, had I known.”

“It’s alright,” Greg said. “It’s not too serious, really. The wrist’s a bit of a pain but I’ll take a few weeks off. I’ll be right as rain in four to eight weeks.”

“What precisely happened?”

“Sherlock didn’t tell you?”

“I’d rather hear it from you,” Mycroft said.

“We went to a warehouse Sebastian Moran was meant - wait, did Sherlock explain about Sebastian Moran?”

Mycroft nodded. “He did.”

“Right. Well. We went to the warehouse and there was nothing there. So, I left in the car to go back to the Yard. And out of nowhere, this massive car just barged me and shunted me off the road and into the Thames. And here I am.”

Mycroft studied him. “A broken wrist and bruised ribs and chest from the air bag, a gash to your leg and a cut down the right side of your body from the glass on the window.”

Greg nodded. “Sums up the injuries, yeah.”

“Did you use a headrest to escape?” Mycroft asked.

“I did, actually.”

“Very quick thinking.”

“I thought I was going to die,” Greg said. “Took a little while to stop panicking. Apparently I was hyperventilating in the ambulance, but it’s all a bit of a blur. Mycroft, why am I here?”

“I heard about your broken wrist. I thought it might be better if someone could make you meals and keep an eye on you,” he lied. Mycroft frowned and pressed his lips tightly together. “And you may be in danger. And you will be safe here until my people have analysed the footage of your accident.”

“Do you think I was the target?” Greg asked.

“Almost certainly, taking into account the nature of the accident and the way your car was pushed into the Thames.” And the poster, he thought. There was no doubting that was a definite threat, aimed directly at Greg.

“Have you got it?” Greg asked.

“Got what?”

“The video?”

“Yes.”

“I want to see it,” Greg said.

“It’s most distressing,” Mycroft said. “I’m not sure it’s for the best while you are recovering.”

“Mycroft, I have a broken wrist and some bruises. I’m not that bad.”

“Nonetheless. You should remain calm and allowed time to recover.”

Greg narrowed his eyes at him. “You’re actually worried about me.”

“Nonsense. Sherlock was worried about you. I am merely keeping an eye on you.”

Greg smiled. “Sherlock isn’t worried about me. I bet he thinks he has no control over whether I’m fine or not fine so he’s probably pissing everyone else at the Yard off instead.”

Mycroft smiled a little and sat down on the edge of the bed. He studied Greg for a moment before pressing the backs of his fingers to his forehead. Greg tried to sit up, but Mycroft gently pushed him back down. “Stop moving.”

“This is bloody irritating, you know?”

“How can I help?” Mycroft asked.

“You’re offering to help?”

Mycroft raised his eyebrows. “Would you like any painkillers? A drink?”

“I want a blowjob.”

Mycroft chuckled. “Is that so?”

“I thought I’d give ordering you around a try. How’s it working?”

Mycroft rolled his eyes, but he reached down to feel Greg’s pulse. He found it steady. “I am concerned about infection.”

“I don’t have diseases. I was tested months ago.”

Mycroft raised his eyebrows again. “An infection of the wound, Greg. Or pneumonia, or goodness knows what disgusting viruses live in the Thames.”

“Well, I won’t give those to you either.”

Mycroft shook his head. “You’re going to be an unbearable patient, aren’t you?”

“Good job you make a sexy nurse to make up for it then really,” Greg grinned.

Mycroft tried to glare at him, but a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. Greg grinned at him, and Mycroft finally relaxed, certain he’d got through his ordeal relatively unscathed. “Are you feeling well enough to move to the living area?” he asked. “I thought we could watch a film.”

“That would be amazing,” Greg said. “TV is rubbish.”

Mycroft stood up, easing the covers back. Greg shuffled to the side of the bed and Mycroft held his arm out to him. He let Greg lean on him as he slid out of bed and Mycroft wrapped an arm around his waist, guiding him to the living room. “Here we go,” he murmured, helping Greg to the settee. Greg sat down with a grunt, wincing.

“Let me see,” Mycroft said, kneeling down on the floor and pushing Greg’s pyjama trouser leg up. He inspected the cut. It wasn’t too deep, but it still shook Mycroft a little to see it. It could have been worse. It could have been so much worse.

“Actually, Mycroft,” Greg said. “Can I use your shower?”

Mycroft glanced up at him, giving his knee a quick squeeze. “Of course. Would the bath be easier?”

“Yeah, that would be amazing actually.”

“I’ll run it for you and then find something plastic to cover your cast with.”

Greg smiled and Mycroft stood up. He wandered into the bathroom, putting some clean towels onto the radiator for him. He turned the taps on before heading for the kitchen. He found some clingfilm and sellotape. “Lean on me,” Mycroft said, helping Greg out of the sofa.

Greg nodded, wrapping his good arm around Mycroft’s waist. They walked into the kitchen, Greg hobbling a little. Greg glanced down at his shirt. “I can’t…”

“I know,” Mycroft said softly, putting the clingfilm down. He stroked Greg’s arm before starting to unfasten his shirt. They smiled at each other, and Mycroft felt a twinge of regret that they weren’t doing this properly. That he was undressing Greg because he was injured, and not because they were about to have sex for the first time. “Tell me if I hurt you.”

Greg nodded. “Sure,” he said.

Mycroft took hold of his shirt, carefully sliding it off his shoulders. He took it off Greg’s good arm and then carefully over his cast. He folded it, putting it down onto the side. He glanced at Greg’s chest, studying the bruising.

“It looks worse that it is,” Greg said.

Mycroft nodded, but he didn’t agree. It looked as bad as it possibly could. His torso and stomach were covered in the beginnings of red and purple bruises. It looked painful. Mycroft picked up the clingfilm, wrapping it around Greg’s cast. He started to stick the plastic down, glancing at the cut along the side of Greg’s body, where he’d caught himself on the window as he swam out

“It’s a longer wound than I imagined,” Mycroft said.

“Yeah, I properly caught it,” Greg said. “I guess I just saw the gap in the window and went for it.” Greg pressed his lips together, letting out a soft sigh.

Mycroft reached out, touching gently beneath his eye. “You’re developing some black eyes.”

Greg groaned. “I’m going to look horrendous in a couple of days.”

“Unlikely,” Mycroft said, smiling a little as he turned the taps off. “I will re-dress the wounds for you after your bath. Do you need anything else?”

Greg frowned, looking around. “No, I’m fine. But don’t lock the door in case I get stuck and need help getting out or something.”

Mycroft laughed, dipping his hand in the water to check the temperature. “Towels are over there on the heater and the shampoos and soaps are in the basket. Please call for me if you need anything.”

He glanced at Greg once more before leaving him alone and closing the door. He sighed and walked to his bedroom, sitting down on the edge of the bed. He didn’t know what to think, except he was sure he was responsible for this, one way or another. Greg was in pain and injured and he’d almost drowned because Mycroft had dragged him into his world.

He shook his head and walked through to the kitchen. He had to stop considering the worst. His one aim, his only aim now, was to keep Greg safe, whatever it took.

He checked his fridge, trying to find something to cook. He poured some water into the kettle. He frowned as he heard his name shouted from the bathroom. He walked through the flat. “Is everything okay?” he asked through the door.

“Can you… can you wash my hair?”

Mycroft opened his mouth. He wanted to say no. But how could he? He wanted Greg to be safe, and so he invited Greg to stay with him. He had to do what he could for him. “Of course. Let me find a jug. I will be there in a moment.”

Mycroft went to the kitchen, first and then hung his jacket and waistcoat up in his bedroom and put his tie in the cupboard. He stood in front of the mirror as he rolled his sleeves up before knocking on the bathroom door. He stepped inside.

“This is really embarrassing,” Greg mumbled.

“Nonsense. I wouldn’t have invited you here if I wasn’t willing to do things for you. Which shampoo would you like?”

Mycroft bent over, slipping his socks off and rolling his trousers up to his knees. Greg held a bottle out and Mycroft sat down on the edge of the bath. He put his feet down into the warm water, resting his legs on either side of Greg’s body. He scooped some water into the jug, staring at the back of Greg’s head.

He’d never done this before. He’d shared a shower with someone, but he’d never washed someone else’s hair. It was intimate, so intimate. “Tip your head back and close your eyes,” he said.

Greg leaned back and Mycroft carefully poured the water over his hair, stroking it back. Greg leaned against Mycroft’s leg, and Mycroft couldn’t help the fond smile on his face as he watched him. He kept brushing his fingers through Greg’s damp hair, emptying some of the shampoo into his palm. He rubbed it into Greg’s scalp, smiling as Greg groaned.

He washed the soap out, gazing down at him. He had such an overwhelming desire to protect him. He blamed himself for what had happened, and all he wanted was to rewind time. Someone was responsible for this. And Mycroft couldn’t imagine what he would do to them when he found out who it was.

He stayed still, stroking his fingers through Greg’s hair, watching him. Greg still looked tense. Mycroft pressed his lips together. He’d been… scared, when he found out Greg was injured. He’d expected the worst. He felt the same terror as the day Jimmy had… Mycroft swallowed. No, it was worse this time. Worse because Greg hadn’t asked to be put into danger. Greg looked up at him.

“I’m glad you escaped,” Mycroft whispered, stroking Greg’s forehead.

Greg smiled. “Yeah, I’m pretty glad too.”

Mycroft smiled, and he reluctantly got up. “Call me if you need anything else,” he said, patting his legs down with the towel. He walked out, pushing his trousers back down. He headed back to the kitchen, listening out for Greg. He poured himself a glass of water, leaning against the side as he sipped it. He heard a tap coming from the bathroom and he walked back to open the door.

“Can I have some pyjamas?” Greg asked. “There should be some in the suitcase.”

Mycroft nodded. “Of course.”

Greg followed Mycroft to the spare bedroom. He found Greg’s case, and rifled through it until he could find what he could only assume were Greg’s ‘pyjamas’. “These?” he asked.

Greg grinned. “My pyjamas not good enough for you?”

Mycroft laughed and held the trousers out. Greg stepped into them and Mycroft lifted them up. Mycroft stared up at him. Greg shuddered, his eyes darkening. Mycroft wanted nothing more than to kiss him, to remind himself that he really was alive and safe. He wanted to lean into him and hold him. He sat up on his knees and pressed his cheek against Greg’s crotch, Greg’s cock hardening against him.

“Fuck,” Greg muttered. “If you’re going to do that, I need something to hold onto.”

Mycroft smiled up at him, watching as Greg sunk down onto the bed. Mycroft shuffled along the floor, and pulled Greg’s trousers back down, leaning between his legs.

He sat up and took Greg’s half hard cock into his mouth, hoping the pleasure would override any pain Greg still felt. He stroked his prick in time with his mouth, flicking his tongue against him. He wished he knew what else to do. He wished he could hold Greg, hug him, the way he knew Greg would do for him. He was sure this, just sex, was all he had to offer.

But Greg was groaning above him, curling his fingers in Mycroft’s hair. Mycroft just kept moving his head, sucking hard around him. He saw Greg’s thighs tense and his lips fall slack, and moments later, he was coming. Mycroft swallowed around him, closing his eyes for a moment before pulling back. They held one another’s eyes for a few seconds.

“Stand up,” Mycroft said, and pulled Greg’s pyjama trousers back up his body. He stood facing him, gazing into his brown eyes.

He could have died.

That thought terrified him. He couldn’t bear it.

He wrapped a hand around the back of Greg’s neck. They stared at each other. Mycroft didn’t know what to do. He wanted to do everything in his power to make it better somehow. But he didn’t know what. He’d run out of words and actions and comfort.

Greg would know what to do, had their positions been reversed. But after so many years of avoiding this exact scenario, avoiding caring about anyone other than his family… he didn’t know what he was supposed to do. And he knew he was never good at this.

Greg nudged their noses together before kissing him so softly, so tenderly. It eased all of Mycroft’s fears, but intensified them too. It was too much - too close. He loved too much and hated himself for it too. And he was so close to saying it. He could just whisper those three words against Greg’s lips, so he knew he was cared for…

Mycroft stepped back. “Yes. Well. I shall put some dinner on.” He walked through to the kitchen, swallowing. He began to prepare a tomato sauce, busying himself with cooking. He had fallen far, far, far too deep. He had to get out of this. And he couldn’t, because Greg was in his home, and he had to be in his home to keep him safe. He stirred some pasta, tensing as Greg walked into the kitchen. He didn’t turn around. Couldn’t.

Mycroft tasted the tomato sauce and added some Worcestershire sauce to it. He stirred in some pepper and added the sauce to the pasta. He served their dishes up, putting them down on the table.

They ate in silence, Mycroft staring down at his bowl. He should speak. Say something useful, say something comforting. And he’d lost every word in his vocabulary.

“What did I do?” Greg asked, staring at him.

“Do?”

“Yeah, why are you so angry at me?”

Mycroft hesitated, blinking at him. “I’m not angry, Greg,” Mycroft replied, trying to smile.

“Then why aren’t you talking?”

“I could ask you the same question,” Mycroft replied.

“Smart arse,” Greg muttered, taking another bite of his pasta.

Mycroft paused. “What would you like to watch?” he asked.

“I don’t mind. I actually enjoyed Frankenstein. So any kind of film like that, if you want.”

“American Psycho?”

Greg grinned. “That sounds cheerful.”

Mycroft bit his lip. “I apologise. Most of the films I have been given are horror films.”

“No, it’s good. I heard it’s a good film.”

“I believe it received mixed reviews at the time.”

“I’m not fussed about reviews. I usually watch easy films. Like Die Hard and Star Wars.”

“I have never seen either,” Mycroft said.

Greg stared at him. “You’ve never seen Die Hard?”

“I believe people watch it at Christmas. I have never understood why.”

“It’s a classic, Mycroft. Give me Die Hard at Christmas over White Christmas any day of the week.”

“Is that a Christmas tradition of yours? To watch Die Hard?”

“I don’t have any Christmas traditions. I don’t have any traditions at all, actually.”

Mycroft nodded. Of course Greg didn’t have traditions, he scolded himself. He didn’t have a family for most of his childhood. “Let me redress your cuts, and then we can watch a film.”

Mycroft stood up, filling the sink with water. He washed and dried the plates and Greg put everything away. Mycroft marvelled at him, at how he had finally worked out where everything was supposed to go. He hadn’t been to Crusader House that often, and yet it was as though he’d made himself at home. Mycroft sighed and left Greg to finish putting the forks away. He collected his first aid box from the bathroom before washing his hands.

Greg was already in the living room, holding his shirt up. “Go on then,” he said.

Mycroft walked over to him, taking a seat on the settee. He checked the cut before taking out a dressing and covering it. Greg dropped his t-shirt and turned around. “How’s it looking?” he asked.

“It may scar. It may not. You were lucky.”

“I know,” Greg said, dropping down onto the sofa. “I know.” He put his leg up onto the chair and pulled his trouser leg up. Mycroft carefully covered that cut too, smiling at Greg.

“There.” He stood up, walking over to his television and taking the picture down.

“Been a weird 24 hours,” Greg said. “I don’t really know. Yeah. What I’m meant to be doing.”

“Relaxing and getting better.” Mycroft put the DVD in and dimmed the lights. “Just relax.” He sat down on the opposite end of the settee and Greg stretched his legs out onto Mycroft’s lap. They exchanged a soft smile and Mycroft rested his hand on Greg’s leg.

They watched the film, sharing looks when they laughed. Half way through, Mycroft brought them each a coffee, and he stroked Greg’s leg, watching him. He seemed to have relaxed, and Mycroft found his mind was drifting, wondering if it could always be like this. Whether he could always have this.

He swallowed and forced the thought away. The film ended and Greg yawned. Mycroft turned to him. His eyes looked heavy. “You should get some rest,” he said. “I have plenty of work to do this evening.”

Greg nodded. “Yeah.” He stood up, trudging off tho the spare room. Mycroft turned to his phone. He had a message from Anthea.

 

MESSAGES Anthea Boyette  
9.48pm: We’ve gone through every  
CCTV camera looking for the car.  
We lose it five minutes before and  
after the accident.

 

Mycroft called her. “Turn up the surveillance,” he said. “I want a whole team on high alert for Moran.”

“We don’t know where-”

“-Don’t argue, just do it.”

“Mr Holmes, we don’t know who Moran is. We can’t even trace the car.”

Mycroft frowned. “Not at all?”

“A few miles, and that’s it. We’ve done everything we can but… there’s nothing. Not based on what we have.”

“Anthea I…” Mycroft sighed. “Can you transfer the CCTV footage and everything you have to my laptop here? I need everything you’ve got. I’m going to take another look.”

“Certainly.”

“I’ll be at work normal time in the morning. Go home.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Mycroft hung up and slipped his phone into his trouser pocket. He went to his office and sat working for two more hours.

He left to get a cup of tea when he heard a yell from the spare room. He stopped in his tracks. “No!” Greg cried out. Mycroft yanked the door open, fearing the worst. But all he saw was Greg, curled up on his side, gripping the covers tightly in his right hand, in the midst of a nightmare.

Mycroft walked to the bed, sitting down on the edge. “Shh,” he said, reaching out and touching Greg’s forehead. From beneath his fingers, Greg visibly settled. “That’s it,” Mycroft whispered. “It’s only a bad dream.”

“Mycroft…” Greg mumbled. Mycroft nodded and stroked his hair.

“Yes, it’s me,” he said quietly. “Sleep now.”

“Mmm.”

Mycroft sat with him until Greg’s breathing grew heavy again. He kept stroking Greg’s hair, gazing down at him. He slowly stood up, leaning down and pressing the softest of kisses to Greg’s forehead. “You’re safe,” he whispered as he left. “I promise.”


	22. Protection

**August 2006.**

**Location: Crusader House, Pall Mall, London.**

Mycroft woke to the sound of a horrified yell. He paused for a moment, trying to get his bearings and work out why someone was in his flat. Then he remembered. Greg, hurt and being targeted. Greg, suffering from nightmares. He jumped out of bed and walked to the spare room. Greg was kicking his leg out, pushing the covers off him.

“Greg,” Mycroft murmured, striding to the bed. He sat down on the edge of it, reaching for him. “It’s alright. Greg. Wake up.”

Greg was shaking, muttering under his breath. “Get him out!” he shouted, reaching out for something, finding only air.

Mycroft stroked his forehead, trying to calm him down. “Greg, you’re safe,” he whispered. “You’re safe. Everything is fine. Come back to me now.”

“No, no, no,” he whispered, his voice shaking. “Get him out, get him out…”

“Greg.”

“No!” Greg yelled, sitting up with a start, trembling and covered in sweat.

Mycroft wrapped an arm around him, remembering where his bruises were so he didn’t touch them. “It’s alright,” he whispered, pulling him close. “I’m here, you’re safe and I have you.” Greg turned into the hug, shaking in his arms. Mycroft squeezed his eyes shut, stroking Greg’s hot back through his shirt. “Nothing is going to hurt you,” he said softly. And though there was no one else to hear it, it was a promise to himself. Greg would not come to any harm, not again.

But Greg was still trembling. “I’m sorry,” he said.

Mycroft only held him tighter, acting on instinct more than anything else. “Don’t be.”

“Did I wake you up?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“I’m sorry,” Greg repeated.

“It’s fine.”

“It’s not fine.”

Mycroft pulled back a fraction, cupping Greg’s cheek. Greg’s breath had begun to even out. They exchanged a soft kiss.

“What time is it?” Greg asked.

Mycroft glanced at the clock on the table. “Almost 4.30am.”

“Christ, I’m sorry I woke you.”

“What do you need?” Mycroft asked him.

“Need?”

“What makes this better?”

“Nothing,” Greg whispered. “Nothing makes this better.”

Mycroft swallowed, gently rubbing his back. God, it was killing him to see him this affected by what had happened to him. “Lie on your back, Greg,” he said gently.

Greg did as he was told, and Mycroft curled up to his side, careful not to move any of his injured limbs and bruises. He held Greg in his arms, closing his eyes and hoping it would help.

“What did you dream about?” Mycroft asked.

“Drowning,” Greg said. “In a car.”

“You were shouting ‘get him out’.” Greg tensed a little, and Mycroft wished he hadn’t asked. He stroked Greg’s shoulder, pressing a soft kiss to his temple. Greg began to settle against him, taking a few deep breaths. Mycroft rested with him, lying beside him in the darkness. He wanted nothing more than to stay there all day, supporting him. He couldn’t. “I am going to have a shower and go to work,” he said, getting off the bed.

“Can you get me a book?” Greg asked. “Any book? I just need something to do.”

“Of course.” Mycroft left the room and stood in front of his bookcase, browsing the spines. He wasn’t sure what Greg would like, but he thought some of his Gothic horror might be a bit intense. Nonetheless… He pulled out the Strange Case Of Dr Jekyll And Mr Hyde, The Picture Of Dorian Gray and I, Robot. He took them through to Greg.

“Thank you. I’m sorry I was all…” Greg said, forcing a smile.

“Don’t apologise.” Mycroft glanced at him and then left the room. He sat down with his laptop, checking Anthea’s reports from the previous afternoon and evening.

Then he had a shower and got dressed, listening out for Greg the whole time. Before he left for work, he checked in on him. He was fast asleep again, a book open on his chest. Mycroft smiled fondly at him and quietly closed the door.

He got to work and Anthea followed him into his office for their morning meeting. “Just a moment,” Mycroft said as turned his laptop on. “Before you get into that. Has there been anything new from the police today?”

“No,” she said. “Not yet.”

He sunk into his chair. He hadn’t expected a fast response, if he were honest, but he wanted… something. Anything. He typed in his password and took the reports from Anthea. “Are these new?” he asked.

“No, but I thought you may want to take a look at them.”

Mycroft nodded and flicked through them. He glanced up and frowned as an email arrived in his inbox with a video attachment. He didn’t recognise the sender’s address, but he double clicked on the link. The video opened across the entirety of his screen and the sight almost made Mycroft push away from his laptop.

There was Greg’s face, while he sat behind the wheel of his car. Mycroft hit pause. He stood up, his blood running cold.

“What is it?” Anthea asked.

“Come here,” he muttered, frozen to the spot.

She frowned and walked over. “There was a camera in DI Lestrade’s car?” she asked, staring at the screen. Mycroft nodded, his mouth dry. “Is there a timestamp?” she asked.

“I don’t know what that means,” Mycroft managed.

Anthea nodded, and leaned on the desk, checking the contents of the email. “It says the file was created the day before yesterday at around 3pm… Oh God,” she said, standing up straight. “Don’t tell me this is…”

Mycroft reached forward and pressed the play button. For five minutes, all they watched was Greg driving. They could hear the music and inane chatter coming from the radio. They watched Greg’s eyes flick between his mirrors, saw as he pursed his lips, obviously considering something.

He lifted his arm and put the sun visor down. Part of the camera was obscured by it, but they could still see his face clearly enough. Greg turned his head to the left, his eyes widened in alarm. Mycroft swallowed, unable to take his eyes off the video as Greg frantically fought with the wheel, but the sound of a car smashing into his made Mycroft's chest clench.

“Oh God,” Anthea whispered from over his shoulder.

Mycroft bit his bottom lip. He could only watch as the car landed in the Thames, the airbag inflating. Greg let out an exclamation of pain, holding one hand up to brace himself from the impact. Anthea took a sharp intake of breath as they each heard Greg’s wrist crack. From the small amount of the window they could still see, they could make out water beginning to pool around it.

Greg had blood pouring from his nose, and he was frantically looking around the car, terror, absolute terror in his eyes. He looked so afraid. And even though Mycroft knew he was alive, knew that he’d spoken to him just a short while ago, it didn’t take away the horror he felt deep in his chest.

Seconds passed and Greg had undone his seatbelt. He tried to open the door, but couldn’t.

“He has a broken wrist,” Anthea said. “How on earth does he…”

“He’s got adrenaline on his side.” Mycroft shook his head. “It’s fine. This isn’t live, for goodness sake.”

Greg was already pulling the headrest free, using the metal prongs to smash his way out of the window. Just a minute after he swam out, the camera was submerged in the water and the screen went black.

Mycroft swallowed. He rewound the video and started watching it again, sinking back down into his chair.

“Sir…” Anthea murmured.

“There’s got to be a clue here,” he said, clenching his teeth.

“I can’t watch this again.”

“Then don’t. But this does not leave this room. No one, and I mean no one, not even Greg can know about this.”

“You’re not going to tell him?”

Mycroft shook his head. “I’ll show him the CCTV, once we have it. But how can I tell him about this? He’ll want to see it and…” He shook his head. “Anthea, I need you to break into Greg’s home and check for cameras and bugs. I need you to be thorough but do leave everything as you found it. And I mean everything.”

Anthea nodded. “I promise,” she said, and she left the room. Mycroft watched the video three more times, until he couldn’t bear it anymore. He closed it down at frowned.

He went through the route they’d found for the car. Its journey had started near an abandoned house, the same one where the CCTV had been turned off in Hadrian Kirkcudbright’s house and the National Archives.

It was not a coincidence. Greg was the target. He was targeted because of his association with Mycroft. There was every reason to end their interaction with one another, except that Mycroft refused to be defeated so easily. He refused to give in to someone who thought he might fall apart because his friend had been injured.

He frowned. Except whoever had done it knew that Greg was more than a friend. Whoever it was knew there was more to their relationship that friendship. And that still didn’t rule out anyone in his office. They’d all seen them go to dinner. They’d all seen Greg at the Coeur de Lion, and they all knew very few other acquaintances saw Mycroft there.

They all knew. His drivers all knew. It didn’t narrow it down, but he knew he was missing something.

It all boiled down to Rickard Luck. It all boiled down to the MORnetwork. Rickard Luck had… what? Employed the MORnetwork to work on his behalf to frighten Mycroft. To stop him from working on Operation Indigo.

They got to Nickolay Garzone and to Tatiana Garzone and to Dimitri Grasty. They got to Mycroft’s job, or tried to. They got to Greg. They hadn’t bothered with Sherlock. They by-passed him completely, and therefore they didn’t know the depth of Mycroft’s affections for his brother. And so Jim Braum couldn’t be the leak. Jim knew what Sherlock meant to him. He would have known targeting Sherlock would have terrified Mycroft more than anything else.

He could have spent all day at the Diogenes considering the matter. It was what he wanted to do. But he had an Executive Liaison Committee meeting and a coffee with the home Secretary. He had to plan for a trip to South Korea. And he wanted to go home early to spend time with Greg. He could work from home, he supposed. He only wanted to be there so he could ensure Greg wasn’t pushing his body too hard - at least that’s what he told himself.

He couldn’t concentrate. All he wanted was to be with Greg.

* * *

The day went by in a blur, and by 5pm Jim was driving Mycroft home. He walked up the stairs and nodded to his butler as he let him in. “Your brother came by,” he murmured. “In quite a temper.”

“That doesn’t surprise me,” Mycroft muttered. “My apologies for his behaviour.”

“No problem, sir.”

Mycroft nodded and walked into his flat. He looked around the living room. From the settee, he could hear Greg’s soft snores. Mycroft toed his shoes off and padded across the lounge. He stood behind the sofa, gazing down at him. He had his good arm stretched off the sofa, his fingers trailing against the carpet. His mouth was slightly open and the book lying on his chest, but he looked peaceful. Mycroft smiled down at him, reaching down over the back of the sofa. He brushed the backs of his fingers against Greg’s cheek. He didn’t stir. Mycroft went to take a step back, but he couldn’t stop looking. He stroked Greg’s hair and then his forehead. Greg’s eyes fluttered open and looked straight into Mycroft’s. Mycroft removed his hand. “Afternoon,” Greg said tiredly, smiling.

Mycroft glanced down at the book on his chest. “How are you enjoying it?” he asked.

“It’s good. Really good.”

Mycroft wandered into the kitchen and turned the kettle on. “What did Sherlock want?” he asked.

“For me to get Donovan to work with him.”

Mycroft studied him. “How are you? Your bruises are quite prominent.”

Greg touched his face. “I know. I look terrible. You don’t have to look at me if you don’t want to.”

Mycroft smiled, amused that Greg would ever consider that was possible. It wasn’t, not from where Mycroft was standing. He poured them both a coffee, before carrying them through. “Have you been sleeping all day?” Mycroft asked as he carefully handed one of the mugs over.

“Sorry. I’m really worn out.”

“It wasn’t an accusation, Greg. I’m glad you’re resting. Are you feeling better after your dream?”

“I barely remember it,” Greg said, but Mycroft caught the lie immediately. He didn’t question it as he took a seat down on the settee, smiling as Greg stretched his legs across Mycroft’s legs. 

Mycroft glanced at him. “I have a lot of work to do after dinner this evening,” he said. “But I would like it if you wished to stay in here and watch some films or television.”

“You sure?” Greg asked. “I’ll leave tomorrow. Get out of your hair.” Mycroft frowned, stroking Greg’s knee. He wasn’t ready for him to leave. He wasn’t sure Greg would be safe in his own home. It was free from cameras and bugs, so no one had been there yet, but if they’d got to his car then they could have got anywhere. “What’s up?” Greg asked.

“We will discuss it later. I have other things to confirm first.”

“But there is something? Is it to do with my accident?”

Mycroft nodded. “In part.” Mycroft sipped his coffee. In his mind, he could still see the fear in Greg’s eyes as his car began to sink and it made his blood run cold. Greg reached for him.

“You look stressed,” Greg said. “There’s more going on here than you can tell me, isn’t there?”

Mycroft bit his lip, not sure what to say. Did he even show him the CCTV? It was a horrible thing to live and then to witness. No one should have to see that.

“Do you want a hand with dinner?” Greg asked. “I mean, only one hand, obviously.”

“If you’d like.”

“It’ll be good to do something useful,” Greg said, getting up. He hissed, wincing. Mycroft reached for him, gently touching his lower back.

“What’s hurting?”

“My side, mostly.”

“May I take a look?”

Greg nodded and lifted his shirt up, turning his body so Mycroft could see. Mycroft carefully peeled the dressing down from his side. His cut didn’t look infected, but it was no surprise it was painful still. “It looks to be healing,” Mycroft said. “But unfortunately it’s covering muscles, so it hurts when you move.” Mycroft carefully put the dressing back on, flattening his hand against Greg’s chest. He’d done this. This was all his fault. He knew, from the start, that he would drag Greg down into his world and ruin him in some way and it had happened so much faster than he could have imagined. God, and it hurt.

“It’s alright,” Greg said. “I’m okay.”

Mycroft frowned and pulled away from him, knowing it was the very opposite of fine. He had a broken wrist and his body and leg were cut. He had bruises covering his face and his body. He’d been targeted. Someone wanted him dead. That wasn’t ‘alright’ that wasn’t ‘okay’. Nothing would make it ‘alright’ nothing would make it ‘okay’. Mycroft walked to the kitchen, taking out some vegetables.

He began chopping them, sighing as Greg stepped into the kitchen. “Do you want to stir?” he asked.

Greg laughed, standing beside him. “That’s all I’m good for isn’t it?”

Mycroft glanced at him, beginning to chop some beef. “I’m afraid so, in the kitchen. But you’re good at a great many things, and you don’t need both hands for all of them.”

“Just most of them.”

“If you need help, you only need to ask. Don’t be proud.”

“I’m not. I’m not being proud.”

Mycroft bit his lip. “I know,” he said softly, pouring some oil into the pan. He touched Greg’s shoulder and handed him a spoon. “You can stir.”

Greg smiled, nodding. “I can stir,” he agreed.

Mycroft lay the table, overseeing the food. He dished up their stir fry, waiting for Greg to start before eating himself. He tensed as Greg’s foot brushed against his, their toes touching under the table. Mycroft sipped his water, not moving.

The tiniest touch just broke him. It made him want far, far more. He wanted to protect Greg, to keep him in his home forever, so he couldn’t be hurt again. That was ridiculous, even if it weren’t unrealistic.

He kept eating food, unable to look up at Greg and at the bruises he may as well have put there himself. He was responsible for it. He didn’t deserve to bask in his touch. He was ruining Greg with every second that passed. He pulled his foot away and then he wished he hadn’t. It didn’t matter what he wanted. It was about comforting Greg and ensuring his well-being. So Mycroft covered his foot with his.

“You know, Mycroft,” Greg started, “if you can find Sherlock something to do for the next few weeks it might help him out.”

Mycroft nodded. “I did give that some thought. The problem is I don’t particularly trust him with anything.”

“Yeah, I know that feeling. I’m convinced one day he’s going to pick evidence up at a crime scene without gloves. I’m always reminding him.”

“I wish I could remember what Sherlock used to do before drugs.”

“I bet he found something else to do,” Greg said.

Mycroft frowned, trying to remember. He’d been self-destructive at best. “Cigarettes. Sneaking bottles of whiskey and rum to his room. Carrying out experiments on his own body. Burns and cuts. It was easier when I was home. He never really enjoyed my company much, but he did love to argue.”

Greg smiled. “That’s not changed.”

Mycroft smiled.“Sherlock finds it difficult to relate to people.”

Greg nodded. “I know. I’ve seen that.”

“And yet he allows you to be a part of his life in some way.” He looked up at Greg, studying him. Sherlock let him in, in a way he never had with Mycroft. “He was willing to stay at your flat and to give you his stash. He’ll never share his feelings, indeed, he tries very hard to pretend he has none. But he doesn’t push you, Greg. Not like he pushes everyone else.”

Greg shrugged. “He can deduce whatever he wants about me. I haven’t got anything to hide.”

Mycroft raised his eyebrows.“That’s not strictly true.”

“But you know it all,” Greg said. “So does Sherlock. I mean, he’s never used any of it against me. Not yet anyway. Telling me about Caroline’s affair was a bit of a low blow, but I’m glad he did it.”

“Are you aware Sherlock despises our association with one another?”

Greg tilted his head. “What do you mean?”

“Sherlock has incorrectly deduced the depth of our feelings towards one another. He believes when I inevitably break your heart, he will no longer be allowed to work with you. Couple it with Sherlock’s - and my own - belief that sentiment is unnecessary and inconvenient then he cannot understand the friendship we have. He feels he has rather claimed you as his own ‘toy’ to play with. You give him things to do and make him feel useful and, I suppose, worth something.”

“You’re not going to break my heart. It’s just sex.”

“You and I know that,” Mycroft said, although he wasn’t sure he believed that himself. “But Sherlock doesn’t understand sex.”

“I dunno, Mycroft. I’m pretty sure he’s tried to scare me away from you. But, I mean, without this… Without this thing between us, I go home every night at 10pm and fall asleep on the couch.”

“I know,” Mycroft murmured. “It’s beneficial for us both to have some human contact. And I mean that as more than contact with people. It’s a physical human contact neither of us has otherwise.”

“Yeah,” Greg nodded.

It was all about touch. A touch Mycroft never shared with anyone else. It was about spending time with a man who was so good, and so wonderful, he made Mycroft feel good just for being around him. It made him feel acceptable and right.

Touch. A single touch made everything okay.

“Just like my foot on yours right now,” Mycroft added. “It isn’t romantic. It isn’t even friendship. It’s a physical connection to the world. You and I make life and death decisions on a semi-regular basis, and we stare death in the face in one sense or another almost daily. Sherlock doesn’t understand or relate to the hollowness which comes from that.”

“But you do?” Greg asked.

“My foot is on your foot, Greg. You may make of that what you will.” He stood up, walking to the sink. He began to fill it with water and washing-up liquid. He swallowed, unable to face Greg, petrified he’d given too much away. “Find a film to watch. I will be with you in a moment.”

“Mycroft?”

“Mm?”

“You’re right. What you said about being physical. It’s nice.”

Mycroft raised his shoulders, pouring in the washing up liquid. “I know,” he whispered.

He waited until Greg left the room before closing his eyes. He sighed and began to wash up.

Being touched and held by Greg was perfect. But it was also too much, too dangerous. He couldn’t find a way through it.

He sat down with his laptop beside the fire while Greg watched Strangers On A Train. He began to type up some reports. He glanced up at Greg every so often. He wished he didn’t need the distance between them as much as he did. He wanted nothing more than to sit with him and hold his hand. But they weren’t there. Not yet, a small voice added. He pursed his lips and went back to watching the CCTV of Greg’s accident.

He thought, every time he looked at it, that it would be different. It never was. It was just as harrowing every time.

He looked up at Greg and they met each other’s eyes. They smiled and Mycroft turned to his work. Just a smile made his cheeks warm. Oh, he was gone. He was completely gone.

He bit his lip as the film ended. He closed his laptop. “That’s enough for the moment,” he said. He smiled at Greg, finding his company was pleasant, even when they weren’t talking. Even though Greg never put his mug on the coaster, Mycroft found he didn’t mind. If anything, he liked finding the coffee stains on his table, because it meant Greg had been there. “I am grateful to you, for distracting me from work on the evenings you come here.”

Greg smiled. “You’re welcome.”

Mycroft nodded. “I believe I promised you an explanation,” he finally said.

“You don’t need to.” Greg shifted, pulling a face as he tried to find a comfortable position on the settee.

“I do. You look uncomfortable, Greg. Do you require more painkillers?”

Greg nodded, rubbing his face. “Yeah.”

Mycroft stood up, walking over to him. He touched Greg’s forehead. He wasn’t feeling too warm, so his body was obviously repairing itself. “You’ll be more comfortable in bed.” Mycroft helped him up, guiding him to the spare room.

“I’m fine on the sofa,” Greg protested.

“Then perhaps I would like to be comfortable.” He found Greg’s painkillers, popping two out of the packet and putting them into his hand. “I’ll just get the water.”

Mycroft went to the kitchen and poured out a glass of water. After giving it to Greg, he unfastened his waistcoat and slipped off his tie, leaving them over the back of a chair. He walked back to the living room to collect his laptop, turning the main lights out so the bedroom was lit by the lamps. He sat down beside Greg on the bed, watching him.

“I believe Sherlock showed you a video of your accident earlier,” Mycroft said. “We have found two more angles. They have been shared with Sergeant Dimmock, who I believe has taken over the investigation. Sergeant Donovan was regarded to be too close to the victim. In this case, yourself.”

He showed them both to Greg. He held Greg’s thigh, wishing he didn’t have to show him. But he knew Greg would ask, and at least if he saw these, he’d never suspect there was a camera in his car. Mycroft would never tell him.

From beside him, Greg tensed. He took a long, shaky breath, shaking his head. “It doesn’t feel like that was me,” Greg said. He dropped his head onto Mycroft’s shoulder.

Mycroft glanced at him. “We have tried tracking the car’s journey through London. It begins near the road the house the CCTV for the National Archives and Kirkcudbright Estate was switched off. There is no CCTV in that area, a situation which is being rectified as we speak.”

“You think it’s linked then,” Greg murmured. “Kirkcudbright, the Archives, the jewellery store. And me.”

“We know it’s linked, Greg, because of the poster left at the warehouse.”

Greg swallowed. “I didn’t want you to know about that.”

Mycroft nodded. “You were a target, Greg. And here is what we assume so far. None of this information has been shared with Sergeant Dimmock, and it must remain that way. Our intelligence has reason to believe an operation calling itself the MORnetwork has been hired to put out a hit. Kirkcudbright, the Archives, the jewellery store and yourself are the warning shots.”

“Warning of what?” Greg asked.

“Warning me,” Mycroft replied, closing down the laptop.

“I was targeted because we know each other?” Greg asked, frowning.

“Yes. I have reason to believe there is an informant among my staff.”

“Jesus,” Greg muttered.

“I don’t know who the warning is from, or what they are after. But I will find out.”

“And then what?”

Mycroft bit his lip, resting his cheek against Greg’s hair. He stroked his thigh, rubbing slowly until Greg’s body began to relax against his. It was easy, Mycroft realised. Once Greg had shown him how to comfort someone, he knew how to do it. And it felt good to do it.

“I don’t necessarily think the aim was to kill you,” Mycroft said, thinking aloud. “The words on the poster, ‘some other time’, implies a later encounter has been planned. I suppose if you did die, it wouldn’t have been the worst thing in the world as far as their plans went, but they certainly were not aiming to kill you. If they wanted you dead, they would have shot you.”

“Well, that’s comforting,” Greg muttered.

Mycroft looked at him. “We will be keeping a closer surveillance on you.”

“I’m a police officer, I don’t need your surveillance.”

“Need I remind you of your broken wrist, stitches in your leg and enormous gash up the side of your body?”

Greg sighed. “Good point. But even so.”

“Even so,” Mycroft said. “Your life and mine is inexorably linked at present.”

“Mycroft, am I safe in my own home?”

Mycroft paused, not sure how much to tell him. This time, he opted for the truth. “I don’t know. Nor do I know about Sherlock’s safety, or the safety of your staff. But the problem is being treated as a priority.”

Greg shook his head and Mycroft turned to him, considering pulling him into a kiss. But out of the corner of his eye, he saw Greg’s hand on the covers, his thumb twitching, his body trembling.

“You’re shaking,” Mycroft murmured taking hold of Greg’s hand. “Lie down, Greg.”

Greg shuffled down against the bed, lying on his back. Mycroft turned onto his side. Comfort. He’d give whatever was needed, and provide everything he could. Greg deserved it after all. Mycroft leaned forward, finding it odd that Greg smelt of Mycroft’s shampoo and body wash rather than his own. And yet Greg had made it smell so different. Made it smell so much more like… like home.

Mycroft kissed his throat, tenderly stroking Greg’s hair as the man began to settle. He kissed his cheekbones and his jaw, trying to demonstrate the depth of his affections without giving anything away. He let his body guide his actions, trying to stop double-guessing himself. And that was made all the easier when Greg kissed him.

He was going to keep Greg safe, if it were the last thing he did. He tried to get that across without words, brushing their lips together and caressing his forehead. He savoured every kiss, melting into it. Greg arched up into him, his breaths speeding up. Mycroft pressed his hand against the front of Greg’s trousers, and found him half hard already. He deepened the kiss, flicking their tongues together.

He wanted to take Greg apart with his kisses, to make him feel better. To help him forget what happened to him. To take away the nightmares and the horrible memories.

He stroked Greg’s cock above his boxers, stroking him slowly. Everything faded away apart from Greg. He was the only thing left in his universe. He began to kiss down Greg’s neck, taking the opportunity to enjoy him, laid out in front of him, stunning even with the bruising.

“Mycroft,” Greg whispered. Mycroft glanced up at him. Greg reached for him, cupping his face and Mycroft leaned into his touch. “I want to, together, I want… Can I suck you and you…” Greg’s blushed. “Use your mouth on me?”

Mycroft gasped softly, and he couldn’t imagine the promise of something so good. He kissed Greg again, caressing his lips with his own. He shuffled out of his trousers, pulling them down and dropping them onto the floor. Mycroft leaned over him, nuzzling his neck. “I’ll tell you if anything hurts,” Greg promised.

Mycroft nodded, hooking his thumbs in Greg’s trousers and boxers, slowly pulling them down, kissing his way down his hips, his thighs, his trousers and ankles as he eased them off. He dropped them onto the floor, stretching up to kiss him, deep and hot and sensual.

He twisted around, lying so his feet were near Greg’s head. He eyed Greg’s hard cock through his boxers, stroking the inside of his thighs. He smiled to himself as Greg shuddered.

“Mycroft, get your underwear off and straddle my face,” Greg said.

Mycroft rolled his eyes at his demanding tone, but followed his instructions anyway. He held his body up over Greg’s, so his head hovered over his crotch. He swallowed as Greg’s hand wrapped around his cock and he licked a line along Greg’s prick. He tried to focus completely on Greg, pulling his underwear down and wrapping his lips around him and teasing him with his tongue.

He tried to ignore the wonderful sensations of Greg’s hot, wet mouth wrapped around his cock, his hand stroking and brushing against his length. He couldn’t help but rock his hips, shuddering. He tried to focus on Greg’s cock, sucking harder and taking him deep into his mouth.

He bobbed his head faster as he felt Greg’s cock twitch in his mouth, flicking his tongue out and humming as Greg came on his tongue. He swallowed what he gave, his body suddenly overawed with pleasure. He came into Greg’s mouth, gasping quietly. He rolled onto his side beside Greg’s body, turning around so he could kiss Greg’s cheek.

Greg turned to him, their foreheads pressing together. Mycroft closed his eyes. He ended up with his head against Greg’s shoulder. His eyes were closed, and were he under the covers, he would have just fallen asleep beside him. He allowed himself to linger there, lying beside him, savouring his warmth.

He opened his eyes as Greg yawned and he reluctantly sat up, kissing his chin and then his lips.

“You’re going to do more work, aren’t you?” Greg asked, holding Mycroft’s face.

Mycroft nodded. “I am.” He leaned down, kissing Greg’s lips one last time before getting dressed. He collected Greg’s pyjamas from his suitcase, helping him to get dressed. “Would you like me to bring you anything?”

“No, I’ll just sleep,” Greg said. “I’ll try and leave sometime before you get back tomorrow.”

Mycroft bit his lip and nodded. “You’re still welcome here. Any time, any day, if you need me.”

Greg smiled at him. “Cheers.”

Mycroft smiled back and turned the light off. He quietly closed the door, retreating to his office.

He worked until his eyes were falling closed. He retraced his steps on the the Nickolay Garzone killing. He re-read his reports for Tatiana Garzone. With a frustrated sigh, he stood up. He picked up one of the folders on his desk, flicking through it. It contained bank statements for Rickard Luck’s company, RL6. It had been a long time since he’d looked at them, having taken them home and never quite getting back to checking them.

And there, on the list of financial transactions, one company name stood out: MOR.

Mycroft frowned.

There it was. The Russian Government paid the MORnetwork. The MORnetwork paid the money back to RL6.

Mycroft took a step away from his desk. One person should have known that. They should have seen the link already and reported it back to him.

Danny Finck was the leak.


	23. Death Sentence

**August 2006.**

**Location: Coeur de Lion Offices, Mayfair, London.**

Mycroft waited, sat behind his desk, his hands clasped in front of him, unmoving. He’d left the door open, and he could hear each member of his staff arrive at work, chattering and typing on their laptops. Anthea wandered into his room with a confused look and went to shut the door. “Leave it,” Mycroft said.

She paused before sitting down, talking him through his schedule. But he hardly listened. He tapped his fingers against the desk. “Is Danny here yet?” he asked.

Anthea nodded. “He got here about five minutes ago,” she said.

Mycroft stood up. He strolled out, ignoring the confused glances from his staff. “Mr Holmes?” Anthea called out, but he ignored her. He didn’t even knock on Danny’s office door. He swung it open. Danny’s head snapped up as he entered. He immediately stood up, holding his hands behind his back. From behind him, Mycroft could hear Anthea’s footsteps, but he held his arms out in the doorway, preventing her from walking past him.

“I’ve been doing some investigating,” Mycroft said, holding Danny's eyes. “It turns out the company called MOR has been sending money to RL6.”

“R-RL6, sir?”

“Yes, indeed. How is it that you don’t know that, when I asked you to investigate the financial transfers of every weapons manufacturer in the world?”

“I-I obviously forgot about RL6.”

“You forgot the biggest weapons manufacturer in the United Kingdom. The country you were not only born in, but work in and serve.”

“I. Yes. I’m sorry.”

“Mr Holmes, shouldn’t you shut the door?” Anthea asked.

Mycroft ignored her, holding Danny’s eyes. Danny bit his lip, his hands noticeably shaking. “I know, Danny,” Mycroft said, his voice low.

“Know what? Know what about what?”

“About your betrayal.” He stepped into the room and shut the door, leaving them alone. He held his head up, staring down at him. “Who do you report to?” he asked. “Sebastian Moran? Or is there someone higher than that?”

“I don’t… I’m not sure what you… exactly…”

“Don’t lie to me," Mycroft said, his voice firm. 

“What-what exactly will-will-will you do?”

“Take a seat, Mr Finck,” Mycroft said, his eyes flicking to the seat.

Danny frowned and sunk into his chair. He rubbed his face. “I didn’t…”

“Shut up,” Mycroft muttered. He stood behind the chair on the other side of the desk, resting his hands on the black leather. “I was lying awake in bed last night considering your betrayal. The fact that you not only betrayed me, and this office, and MI6 but this entire country. Have you been working for the MORnetwork since you began to work for me, or did that come after?”

Danny swallowed, his hands shaking. “Sir I… Before. Sir.”

“I see. I’m rather impressed, actually, at your ability to lie. I thought there were very few men alive who could lie as well as I did. Unfortunately for you, you weren’t so good at covering your tracks.”

“Sir,” Danny muttered, swallowing.

“Did you really think I wouldn’t work it out?” Mycroft spat out at him.

“I-I don’t know.”

“Who do you answer to?”

Danny shook his head. “I don’t know,” he whispered. “There’s always just… messages but no name. And then I get money.”

“Messages where?”

“It’s an encrypted internet page. I don’t talk to anyone… things just… they happen.”

Mycroft raised his eyebrows. “That’s not exactly true, now is it? Things don’t _just_ happen. Men and women have died, Danny. Because of you.”

“No not because of-”

“-Yes, because of you. You are responsible for the deaths of at least three people. Did you put the camera in Greg Lestrade’s car?”

Danny shook his head. “No, sir.”

Mycroft nodded, certain he was telling the truth about that at least. “But you did find out about Dimitri Grasty somehow. And you did tell the MORnetwork about my investigations into Rickard Luck. Who do you report to?”

“I don’t,” Danny whispered.

“Somebody must have recruited you?”

Danny nodded. “They’re dead now, sir.”

“Four deaths then.”

“No! No, that wasn’t… not my fault. The MORnetwork… they killed him. I was so scared they’d do the same to me so I had… I had to keep doing what they asked.”

“Why did they kill him?”

“I-I don’t know.”

“Who was he?”

“I don’t know that either. He was just… just a man. I called him Luke, but that’s all I know about him.”

Mycroft scoffed. “Is there anything you do know?”

Danny shook his head. “I just. I only know there is a website and I send them messages. That’s all.”

“How much do they pay you?”

“A lot,” he whispered.

“How much?”

“Thousands for every piece of information. What are you going to do?”

Mycroft pursed his lips. “I was lying in bed last night, asking myself that very question. Because ordinarily, if I discovered anyone in this office had revealed valuable information relating to national security, I would have them sent to prison.” Mycroft paused, drumming his fingers against the chair. “Unfortunately, in this case, if I went through the proper procedures, more people would find out about my investigations. And that just wouldn’t do. I need you to show me how that website works. And then I need you to send a message. You will tell them I discovered your secret. And that I am interested in working with Mr Luck. And you will do that now.”

Danny’s eyes widened. “Sir… sir, if they… if I tell them you know… they’ll kill me.”

Mycroft nodded. “Yes, I’m quite sure they would,” he replied.

“You’re better than them, sir. I’ve seen it. You gave me that book for Kim because you-you’re a good man.”

Mycroft shook his head. “No, Danny. You’re mistaken. I am not a good man. I am quite aware that when I let you walk out of this building, you will be killed. You’re not the first person I’ve sentenced to death. I doubt you’ll be the last.” He walked around the desk. “Show me that website, now please.”

He stood behind Danny, letting him talk through the website. Danny kept quietly begging for his life, asking for Mycroft not to send the message. But Mycroft dictated what he should say, his voice steady, resolved. He read the message back and watched as Danny sent it. Danny stared up at him, fear in his eyes.

“They’ll kill me,” he whispered.

“You can leave this office now, Danny,” Mycroft murmured. “Stand up. Walk out. Don’t bother taking your stuff. You won’t need it. And get out of my sight.”

“Sir. Please. I have children.”

“So did Nickolay and Tatiana Garzone. So did Dimitri Grasty.”

“Sir… Mr Holmes.”

Mycroft raised his hand. “Silence,” he snapped at him. “Get out of this building.”

Danny slowly rose from his seat, his body shaking. “I won’t betray you again. Ever.”

“I agree,” Mycroft murmured. “Go.”

Danny hung his head. On shaking feet he began to walk to the door. He looked back over his shoulder at Mycroft, who simply stared at him. Danny walked out of the room and past Anthea, who headed into the office. “Sir?” she asked.

Mycroft shook his head. “We may need a new IT man,” he said, frowning. “Find me someone, Anthea.”

“Yes, sir,” she whispered. “What will happen to him?”

Mycroft shook his head. “He’ll have enough time to get his affairs in order, I imagine.” He shrugged and turned to Anthea. “I want you to put security on both Greg Lestrade and Sherlock. I don’t want to know Greg’s movements, I just need to know he’s safe.”

He picked up Danny’s laptop and carried it out of the office. He stopped as he reached the rest of his staff, glancing around at them. “Danny Finck is leaving us permanently,” he said. “This office does not exist to serve me. It exists to serve this country and its national security. Do not betray it.” He turned to his door and then looked back over his shoulder. “Erin,” he said. “A word?”

She nodded and rose from her desk, following Mycroft into his office. Mycroft gestured to the chair and she took it as Mycroft sat down. She was a relatively young woman, her natural dull brown hair dyed a purplish red. “I’ve known for a while that you told Rickard Luck about Operation Indigo,” he informed her. “There were only four people aware of the operation when it first began. Myself, Hadrian, yourself and Anthea. I know Anthea didn’t betray me, so it had to have been you.”

Erin nodded. “Yes, sir,” she said.

“Why?”

“Because of how he treated his wife. He beat her.”

Mycroft nodded. “I know.”

Erin frowned, folding her arms. “Mr Luck went round to the house one day. He and Mr Kirkcudbright met once or twice, as far as I’m aware. He took Mr Kirkcudbright by surprise by visiting his home. They met, spoke. Mr Luck went to leave and at the time, I was sat in the living room with Mrs Kirkcudbright while she held a bag of peas to the bruise on the side of her face. Mr Luck came in and took one look at her. He knelt at her feet and asked, unabashed, is there anything he could do to make her life easier. Mrs Kirkcudbright is a proud woman, and said no, that there was nothing. Mr Luck gave her his card, and said his father had been a bad man. That he could pay for Mrs Kirkcudbright’s protection for the rest of her life, if that was what it took. As he left, I took him to one side and told him Mr Kirkcudbright was investigating him for fraud. Mr Luck left. I never spoke to him again.”

Mycroft nodded, mulling it over. “I’ve just fired Danny for leaking secrets to Rickard Luck,” he said.

Erin raised her eyebrows. “I see,” she replied. “I’ve never done more than what I just said.”

“I believe you,” Mycroft said. “You lived in an unhappy home yourself.”

Erin nodded. “My mother, believe it or not. She raised her fists to my father and he never said a bad word about her, his whole life. I never once saw Mr Kirkcudbright hit his wife, but I regularly saw the aftermath. I worked for him and I hated him. I realise what I did was wrong. But Mr Luck was so kind to her.”

Mycroft narrowed his eyes. Ordinarily, Erin’s behaviour would have been cause for dismissal too. But he knew her work had been exemplary and she’d be useful. “I need you to do something for me, Erin.”

“Yes, sir?”

“I am still investigating Mr Luck. He knows a lot about it, because of Danny. I will need you to re-open a line of communication. I want him to think I wish to work with him. That I admire him. I’ll tell you what to do and when to do it. Do you think you can manage than?”

Erin nodded. “I keep in touch with Mrs Kirkcudbright. I know that she has also kept in touch with Mr Luck.”

Mycroft frowned. “Do they have an… intimate relationship?”

“No. I don’t think so. I’ll find out.”

“Do.” They both stood up. “Erin…” Mycroft frowned. “You were recommended to me by Sylvia Ross. You’ve let us both down.”

“I know, sir,” she said quietly.

“Make it up to me.”

Erin smiled. “I promise,” she said, before leaving Mycroft to his thoughts.

* * *

**September 2006.**

**Location: Seoul, South Korea.**

Stepping off the plane, Mycroft was immediately struck by the humidity inching its way under his once well-pressed suit. He’d had his clothes for this trip specially-designed to try to keep him cool. He had a feeling it hadn’t been successful.

He and Anthea followed the other passengers down the runway and into the thankfully air-conditioned airport. They drank a bottle of water while their bags were collected, before being driven straight from the airport to the hotel. They’d only been in the city around 45 minutes. They had another half an hour before the endless meetings began. Mycroft loosened his tie, grateful they would spend much of the trip indoors.

Anthea smiled at him. “You have time for a walk around tomorrow afternoon?” she said.

“No.”

“I’ll pick you up some gifts then, shall I?”

Mycroft sighed. “A postcard for my parents will be more than adequate.”

“What about Sherlock?”

“No. Thank you.”

“And Detective Inspector Lestrade? I believe he is still recovering from his accident.” Mycroft raised an eyebrow at her. “Is that a no?” she asked.

“It’s a…” Mycroft sighed and frowned. “Fine. Pick up something small and tacky that will amuse him.”

“I don’t know his sense of humour.”

“He has one,” Mycroft said, watching out of the window at the skyscrapers.

“I should hope so,” Anthea muttered, picking up her phone. She tutted at it. “No service.”

Mycroft turned to her. “Remind me what I’m doing when I arrive.”

“A meeting with dignitaries. The British Ambassador to South Korea will be here to greet you and show you around the embassy. You will be joined by two diplomats and the Secretary of State for Defence.”

Mycroft narrowed his eyes. “I thought we were negotiating trade agreements.”

“Have you not seen the latest schedule?” she asked.

“I trust you implicitly. I don’t see any need to look at it until you wave it in front of me.” Anthea rolled her eyes and picked up her phone, waving it in front of Mycroft’s face. Despite himself he managed a smile. “Why on earth did I hire you?” he asked.

“You know why,” she said with a smile. “And if you had seen the schedule, you would have realised the Prime Minister wants to enquire how South Korea is getting on with its neighbour.”

“That wouldn’t be North Korea by any chance would it?”

“It would. But there is a greater emphasis on defence, and less on trade.”

“Typical,” Mycroft muttered. “All my reading was on trade.”

“Well, if you’d read my email-“

Mycroft held his hand up to silence her. “Yes, you are competent and thorough and I don’t know where I would be without you,” he said, repeating an oft-used line.

“Quite right,” she said, grinning as she opened the door and stepped out. Mycroft pulled a face, reluctant to step out into that oppressive heat again. He followed Anthea into the building, their suitcases being wheeled in behind them by hotel staff.

He had a quick shower and changed, before meeting Anthea in the hotel lobby. They were driven to the embassy, where he greeted the various dignitaries. The politics talk was kept to a minimum, and instead they discussed the flights and food. Mycroft found it exhausting. He wanted to cut to the chase rather than being forced to make nice.

From there, they were taken out for dinner. The conversation stayed relaxed, rarely straying into political discussions. Mycroft stayed quiet and let Anthea talk for the both of them. She was far better at the social niceties, finding out about people’s lives while giving Mycroft time to deduce them in his head.

By the time he got into bed at 10pm, he was exhausted. The flight alone had taken it out of him, and he’d slept through most of it, thanks to his pills. He was fast asleep almost as soon as his head hit the pillow.

By 6am, he was in a car again. Anthea was telling him what Sherlock had been up to while he skim-read his paperwork. He glanced out of the window. His mind drifted off to Greg. He had no idea how he was coping with his injuries and being off work. If it were Mycroft, he’d have been running up the walls. And with Greg’s nightmares, he was probably having a torrid time of it… He rubbed his face and Anthea held her hand out. He frowned. “What’s that?” he asked.

“It’s a sweet,” she said.

“Why are you giving it to me?”

“Because it’s tasty. And you look fed up already and the day hasn’t even begun.”

Mycroft sighed. “You eat it,” he said. “And I’m not fed up.”

Anthea shrugged and opened the packet before popping it into her mouth. “What do you need?” she asked.

Mycroft sighed. “You have increased Greg Lestrade’s security, correct?”

“Of course,” she said.

“I shouldn’t be here. I have important matters to tend to at home.”

“You will know everything you need to know,” she promised. “Trust me to keep an eye on everything.”

“Any news on Danny Finck?”

Anthea shook her head. “No.”

The car came to a stop and they got out, walking towards the Government buildings. Mycroft frowned up at it. “What floor are we on?” he asked.

Anthea checked the agenda. “23rd,” she said. She bit her lip. “Are you taking the stairs?” They walked into the reception, collecting their ID cards. They walked towards the lift and Mycroft pressed the button to call for it. Moments later, the doors opened. Anthea glanced at him. “Mr Holmes?” she asked.

Mycroft took a deep breath. He began to take a step forward, but his chest tightened, his skin suddenly clammy as he stared into the confined space. He swallowed. “No,” he said softly, deciding there was no need to put himself through it. “I’ll meet you at the top.”

“I can walk with you,” she told him.

“No. Don’t be silly.” He forced a smile and turned away from her, rubbing his face. He shook his head and began his ascent. He took it slowly, stopping occasionally to gaze out of the windows and over the city. The building was air conditioned, but he still felt far too hot. He checked his phone and climbed the final stairs.

By the time he arrived at the top, everyone else was already seated. He wiped his brow with his handkerchief, squared his shoulders and wandered in. He smiled around the table, shaking hands and taking his seat. “My apologies,” he murmured. “I got rather distracted by the views. It’s a magnificent city.”

A woman poured him a cup of tea and he thanked her in Korean. The talks started simply enough. British politicians made promises to work out more trade agreements. The talks were cordial. Mycroft was able to bridge the occasional language barrier, and Anthea sat at his side taking notes. Mostly, he stayed quiet. He could, when pressed, recall precise figures and legalities, enabling talks to go more smoothly. Only once did he have to guide the Secretary of State for International Development away from the topic of conversation, suddenly concerned he was about to offend their guests.

After a few hours, he got up to stretch his legs, standing by the window and watching the world go by. He checked his watch. Anthea stood beside him. “I’ve had an email from New Scotland Yard,” she said. “The investigation into Greg’s Thames incident has stalled. I’m sorry. There’s no new evidence.”

Mycroft bit his lip. “I don’t accept that,” he said. “Tell them to go through it again.”

Anthea shook her head. “With all due respect, they’ve done what they can. Greg Lestrade is one of their own, and no one wants justice done more than those on his team. There’s nothing else they can do.”

“I don’t accept it,” he said again. “Someone didn’t just try to kill him, Anthea. Someone put a camera in his car. Someone sent the footage to me. To affect me, to…” He shook his head. “I can’t just accept that the evidence is gone. The car, the camera, anything. Has anyone swum down to Greg’s car?”

“In the Thames? No.”

“Could they?”

“And find what?” she asked. “Mr Holmes, there won’t be evidence.”

“There will be the camera.”

“I don’t think this is the best use of anyone’s time.”

Mycroft sighed. He knew that was true. “Please ask Erin Bareford to keep looking. I don’t care if it’s all she does for the next week.” He checked his pocket watch. “I think I have a few more hours of meetings here, and then it’s a free afternoon, correct?”

Anthea nodded. “Yes. But there has been a request for you to meet with Ban Ki-moon.”

“This afternoon?”

“Yes. Before the vetting panel begins to meet tomorrow.”

Mycroft nodded. “Fine,” he said. “Yes. Are you still going shopping?”

“I’ll be wherever you need me, sir,” she replied.

“Go. I don’t expect I’ll need you for a while.”

She nodded. They returned to the meeting. After lunch, Anthea took the car to visit the shops and the markets, leaving Mycroft to meet with the prospective Secretary-General of the United Nations, Ban Ki-moon. He found him to be charming and generous with his time.

Afterwards, he sat down with the British delegates again as they talked tactics for the next meeting. They would be trying to convince South Korea officials to try to cool down North Korea’s aggressive tactics and weapons programme. That would be far easier said than done. They pledged not to go in all guns blazing, but Mycroft knew not all of them had an art for subtlety.

It was gone 9pm before the meetings finished for the day, and jet-lag was beginning to cause Mycroft a few problems. He had a quick dinner and collapsed onto his bed. Just as he was beginning to doze off, he was woken by his phone. “Yes?” he asked, frowning.

“Mycroft. It’s Andrew Regis. How you doing?”

Mycroft sat up, rolling over and turning the lamp on. Andrew Regis calling him was his idea of hell. The Minister seemed unable to keep himself out of trouble for a few weeks… “Yes, fine. What’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong, it’s just been a few weeks since we spoke.”

Mycroft rolled his eyes. “What’s going on?” he asked.

“I was wondering if you knew anything about the education bill the Prime Minister’s planning. I was wondering if you might be able to give me some hints about-”

“-No,” Mycroft cut him off. “No, I don’t know, and even if I did, I would not share it with you.”

“Are you sure?”

“Mr Regis, I’m in South Korea at the moment. This phonecall won’t be cheap. And I have nothing to offer you at the present time.”

There was silence on the line. “Right,” Andrew finally said. “Okay. Thank you.”

“Right,” Mycroft said, hanging up. He shook his head in disbelief, getting out of bed to fetch a bottle of water. He sat down on the edge of the bed. There was a knock on the door. “Oh for goodness sake…” he muttered. “What?”

“It’s Anthea.”

He sighed and stood up, opening the door to her. She bit her lip. “I am sorry,” she said. “I hadn’t realised you’d gone to bed.”

“Barely,” Mycroft said. “What is it?”

“I think you’ll need to clear up a bit of a mess.”

“What mess?”

“One of our diplomats has caused quite a lot of offence, and talks won’t continue tomorrow unless someone apologises.”

Mycroft shook his head. “One day, Anthea, I’m not going to be here for them to turn to. And they’re all going to realise just how much they relied on me.”

“They know already,” she said, standing up. Mycroft frowned and collected his suit from the wardrobe.

“I don’t think they do,” he replied, carrying it to his bathroom. He stood in the doorway, frowning. “I liked Ban Ki-moon,” he said. “Could you please do a bit of a search online and see what you can find out about him? His previous statements, and decisions.”

Anthea nodded. “Of course. This is the gift for Greg, by the way.” She took out a long thin box from her handbag, and Mycroft frowned at the ornate letter opener inside it.

“Small and tacky, I said," he reminded her, wondering how much it had cost.

Anthea shrugged and put it down on the desk. Mycroft closed the door and got changed. He took a few gulps of ice cold water and headed out to the hotel bar to calm down whatever catastrophe had just taken place. Before long, he was being invited for drinks, and he didn’t want to appear rude by turning the invitation down.

So when he woke the next morning, he still didn’t feel rested. He spent the morning trying to smooth the waters. And then he had to leave the diplomats to their work while he travelled across the city for the vetting panel for Ban Ki-moon. He sat in the corner of the table, just listening to the interview process rather than asking questions himself.

The discussions and debates lasted all day. He and Anthea ate dinner together, going over the plans for the next day. He went to bed, only to be woken by the Prime Minister requiring him for an urgent conference call that turned out not to be urgent at all. South Korea was ahead of the United Kingdom on time difference, and the PM hadn’t realised Mycroft was supposed to be in bed.

Then the call came from Hugh Seagroves. Danny Finck had been found dead, shot three times. Mycroft told Hugh to send his condolences to Mr Finck’s family. He didn’t regret leading Danny in the path of the gun. He deserved it, for what he’d done.

But of course, with knowing what had been done, he found himself wide awake in the dark at 4am. It wasn’t as straight-forward as all of that. He didn’t know what would happen next with Rickard Luck. Whether he’d got his message and whether he’d done the right thing. His thoughts turned to Greg again, and he wondered how he was. With a soft sigh, he collected his phone and called him.

“Lestrade,” Greg answered, and Mycroft smiled, closing his eyes.

“Good evening,” he said. “How are you feeling?”

“Not bad. Saw my dad today.”

“How is he?”

“He’s good. You alright?”

“Exhausted,” Mycroft admitted. “I’m sorry I haven’t been in touch sooner, this is the first time I’ve had five minutes to myself.”

“It’s alright. I didn’t expect you to call or anything.”

“I wanted to ring and say we are working tirelessly to find out who hurt you.”

“Cheers,” Greg said, and there was an ounce of relief in his voice.

“You may notice some people around your crime scenes in the next few weeks,” Mycroft warned him. “They are added security for both you and Sherlock. Sherlock will undoubtedly notice their presence and he will rebel in a way only my brother can. Will you keep an eye on him?”

“Yeah, not a problem. I don’t need security though.”

“I wish that were true,” Mycroft murmured. “But until we know the full extent of this, I am taking no chances on our safety.” Mycroft found himself about to yawn. “I must go. I will probably be home tomorrow. I will visit you on the way home.” He smiled a little at the prospect of that. “Goodnight, Greg,” he said.

“Night, Mycroft.”

Mycroft hung up the phone, rolling into his side. Within minutes, he was asleep.

* * *

When the aeroplane finally touched down, Mycroft felt no more awake. His sleeping pills left him feeling more groggy than rested. He’d not slept properly for days. He sat in the back of the car, his head against the window. He dropped Anthea off outside her home and then continued to Petty France. He traipsed into Greg’s building and knocked on the door, yawning.

He couldn’t help but smile as Greg opened the door. The bruises on his face were beginning to fade. His arm was still in a cast, but otherwise, he looked well. “Come in,” Greg said.

Mycroft nodded at him, hardly looking around the flat as he shuffled over to the sofa. He slumped down, closing his eyes for a few seconds and touching his head. God, he was tired.

“When was the last time you slept?” Greg asked, staring at him.

“I don’t remember,” Mycroft admitted. He looked at him, finding he looked surprisingly rested. “Are you well?”

“Yeah, I’m alright. Not that I mind, but why are you here? You should be in bed.”

“I wanted to check up on you.”

Greg sat down beside him. “I don’t need checking up on, Mycroft. Have you eaten?”

“No.”

“Good, neither have I. I’ll order a takeaway and then I’m getting your driver to take you home.”

Mycroft went to grumble that he didn’t need to be taken care of, but instead he closed his eyes, dropping his head down until his cheek found Greg’s shoulder. Ordinarily, he’d have been alarmed by his own actions, seeking Greg’s affection as he was. Instead, he wanted to nuzzle Greg’s neck, inhale him and be wrapped up in him. And so, he just sat there, listening as Greg ordered some Chinese food. Mycroft wanted to protest he wasn’t hungry, but the words didn’t come out. He just rubbed his cheek against Greg’s shoulder in response.

“Do you want a nap before the food comes?” Greg asked. “You can sleep on my bed. It’ll be a good 40 minutes before it gets here.”

No, Mycroft thought. Not in bed. Here was fine. He shuffled closer, seeking out more of his warmth.

“Is that a no to the bed then?” Greg asked. “Alright, hang on.”

Mycroft grunted as Greg leaned forward. He heard the television being switched on, and then Greg’s arm was being wrapped around Mycroft’s shoulders. He pulled him close. “Right, come here. My chest doesn’t hurt so much anymore.”

Mycroft nodded a little, leaning into his embrace. He closed his eyes, inhaling his scent. Greg’s cheek pressed against his hair and Mycroft smiled a little to himself, reassured. Everything faded to silence.

Mycroft jumped at a knock on the door. He sat up straight, frowning.

“It’s just the takeaway,” Greg told him, getting up.

Mycroft sighed, flattening his hair. He tried to straighten his shirt, but it was far too gone by now, full of creases. He thought he should be embarrassed for falling asleep on Greg like that, but he couldn’t manage it. He stood up when Greg carried the food to him, and Mycroft put the boxes on the table, taking the lids off.

“You feeling any better?” Greg asked as he carried the plates through and took a seat beside him.

“Mildly,” Mycroft murmured, eyeing the food. “Are those won tons?”

“I think so,” Greg said.

Mycroft nodded, putting some on his plate and sitting back to nibble them. He soon found he was hungrier than he’d thought. “I was in South Korea,” he explained.

“You were where?”

“South Korea, in East Asia. It is a country of 100,032 square miles with a population of approximately 48,846,823.”

Greg snorted. “Mycroft, I know where South Korea is.”

Mycroft glanced at him, smiling. “Of course, I was just putting it into context.”

Greg laughed. “Go on then. Tell me about South Korea.”

Mycroft hummed, putting more food onto his plate. “Ban Ki-moon is expected to be the Secretary-General of the United Nations. He is South Korean, and the first person from Asia to hold the position for more than 30 years.”

“Good for him,” Greg murmured. “What did that have to do with you?”

“I was on the vetting panel.”

“And how good was he?”

“He sees himself as a harmoniser, a balancer and a mediator. Supporters believe he is all of those things and a good administrator.”

“And what do you think?” Greg asked.

Mycroft turned to him, amazed to see how much interest Greg seemed to have. “He is too low-profile and uncharismatic to lead in difficult times. But he is all of those other things.”

“No one’s perfect,” Greg said.

“Quite. He performed admirably under intense scrutiny.”

“You deduced him, right? You weren’t there to question him, you were there to analyse him.”

Mycroft smiled, plucking a piece of chicken from Greg’s plate when he realised he’d taken the last few pieces. “Why would you assume these things about me, Greg?”

“Maybe because I know you have super powers.” Greg looked at him for a moment, before grinning. He reached forward and touched Mycroft’s top lip, wiping some sauce from it. Mycroft licked his lip, embarrassed.

“He will be confirmed in the post in October,” Mycroft said.

“Then I look forward to seeing the result of your long hours on the news.”

Mycroft leaned against the sofa, smiling softly at him. Greg passed him the prawn crackers and Mycroft nodded a thank you as he began to eat one.

“I’m going back to work next week,” Greg told him. “I can’t stand being cooped up in here anymore. I can feel my brain dribbling out of my ear from daytime telly.”

“You could read.”

“I don’t have any books.”

“You should have taken some from mine,” Mycroft said. “I’ll bring some over for you.”

“Thank you.”

“How did you find Dr Jekyll And Mr Hyde?”

“It was good. I knew the story a bit before, but it was the first time I read it.”

“You must find my interest in Gothic horror incredibly tedious.”

“Why would I think that?” Greg grinned. “I like it about you. It’s interesting. I mean, it’s about more than being scared, right? That’s why you like it?”

“There are layers and meanings, yes.”

Greg nodded. “I know it’s easy to think I’m a bit stupid because compared to you and Sherlock I am, but-”

Mycroft held his hand up, close to rolling his eyes. “Don’t finish that sentence, because it’s absurd. I don’t think you’re stupid. So, let’s not compare your mind to mine and Sherlock’s, shall we?”

Greg nodded. “Alright then.”

Mycroft put his plate down on the table, studying Greg for a moment. He’d missed him, he realised. He’d missed his conversation, his jokes, his smile. He reached out to him, touching his head. Somehow, Greg made everything feel so much better. It struck him again, just how much he loved him, and he couldn’t bring himself to admit it. He couldn’t bring himself to let them get any closer than they were, for fear it would ruin everything in his life. He dropped his hand, shuffling a bit in the chair.

“I would like to kiss you,” he finally said. “Because it has been a few days, and I’m going to be busy for a while, and I’m not sure when I’ll be able to do it again.”

Greg’s eyes widened, his lips parting in surprise. He put his plate down and leaned forward, pressing their lips together. Mycroft rested a hand on the settee, while Greg cupped his cheek. The kisses started off slow, drawing one another’s lips in between their own. Mycroft re-learned him, sighing softly and pressing a little closer. He flicked his tongue out to touch Greg’s bottom lip, smiling against his mouth as he shuddered.

The lips met in soft pecks and then lingering presses. Greg’s teeth found Mycroft’s lip and he let out a soft breath in response. They kept kissing, soft and slow and gentle. Mycroft hummed, easing back a little, still longing for more.

Greg kissed him again. “Come on,” he said. “It’s time to put you in a car and get you home.”

Mycroft frowned and nodded, standing up. He reached for Greg, pressing his forehead against his shoulder in silent defeat. They walked down the stairs together, taking it slow. Greg opened the car door for him and Mycroft slid in. He reached for him. “Thank you for the food,” Mycroft murmured.

Greg smiled, it lighting up his face. “You’re welcome.” He shut the door and Mycroft watched him through the window as he was driven away.

When he took his jacket off, he found the gift he was supposed to give Greg in his pocket. He swallowed and turned the letter opener over in his hand. He placed it back in the box and down on the bedside cabinet, closing his eyes. As he turned his head, he was sure he could smell Greg’s aftershave on his shoulder. 


	24. Surrender

**September 2006.**

**Location: SIS Building, Vauxhall Cross, London.**

Sylvia was already waiting for him when Mycroft arrived at her office, a cup of tea already on the desk for him. He shook her hand, smiling warmly. “I am so very sorry to hear about Danny Finck,” she said. “My condolences to all of you.”

Mycroft nodded. “Thank you.” He sipped his tea, handing over his folder. “My proposal, for the funding you’re offering.”

Sylvia smiled and flicked through it. She wrinkled her nose, glancing up at Mycroft. “I thought you were against surveillance at the expense of privacy.”

He eyed her. “Does this go further than you want it to?”

“Further than I expected,” she said carefully. “What’s going on?”

“Why would anything be going on?”

“Mycroft. You are an intensely private man. And I remember you and Hugh having some quite horrendous arguments over the years regarding privacy. You seem to be following his line of thinking with this.”

Mycroft sighed. “A close personal friend of mine got into an accident. If we had more CCTV and surveillance, we may have been able to find the perpetrator.”

Sylvia smiled. “A friend?” she asked.

“I might have known that was what you’d leap on.”

She laughed, putting the folder away in a drawer. “How little you think of me. Who is this friend?”

“A friend.”

Sylvia tutted, sipping her tea. “I’ll get you the funding for your project, of course. Thank you for doing this. Some of the proposals made me incredibly uncomfortable.”

“You’re welcome.”

“How is Anthea doing?” she asked.

“She’s fine.”

“And you?”

Mycroft nodded. “I’m fine too.”

Sylvia watched him. “Mycroft,” she said softly. “Is there anyone you’re talking to?”

“About what?” he asked.

“I don’t know. Danny Finck’s death has shocked all of us. It must bother you that one of your own is dead. I just wanted to ensure you were taking care of yourself.”

“I’m fine, Mrs Ross.”

“And all of the others?”

Mycroft frowned, wringing his hands. “I don’t. We don’t talk about that. We work.”

“I worry about you. I know you’d rather I didn’t, but I can’t help myself. You were a spirited thing when you first started with us. Quiet, but spirited. Mycroft, if there’s anything you ever need to talk about, you know my door is open.”

Mycroft nodded. “Thank you.”

“Your friend, who got into the accident. Are they okay?”

Mycroft nodded. “A broken wrist and some cuts, but thankfully that was the extent of it all.”

Sylvia smiled at him. “I’m glad to hear it. Mycroft, is there anything I can help you with?”

Mycroft paused, frowning. “Perhaps,” he admitted. “I’ve always worked very closely with Hugh Seagroves at MI6. My relations with MI5 are… satisfactory. Unfortunately, I’ve never had quite the same cordial relationship with Ruth Barker at GCHQ. And she has access to some technology I’d like to explore.”

Sylvia’s smile fell a little. “Mycroft. Don’t step out of your jurisdiction.”

“Why not?”

“Because one man shouldn’t know it all. Quis custodiet ipsos custodes?”

“Who will guard the guardians,” Mycroft translated. “Of course, when that was first written, it referred to enforcing the moral behaviour of women.”

“The sentiment remains,” she said. “I can put you in touch with Ruth, of course I can.”

“But?”

“You are one of the greatest servants this country has, Mycroft. And I have watched you for many years. But don’t neglect yourself. Taking a guardian role upon yourself is all well and good, but who will guard you, Mycroft? And I’m not referring to your power. Who will guard you, to make sure you don’t work too hard?”

“I have Anthea.”

Sylvia tutted. “She’s as much of a workaholic as you are, and unfortunately, she’s also an enabler for you. Your friend, are they involved in the security services?”

“No.”

“No? Oh. Well. That changes matters.”

Mycroft blinked. “It does?”

Sylvia smiled and stood up. “It was wonderful to see you, as it always is. I’ll put you in touch with Ruth and set her straight on you.”

Mycroft smiled and kissed her hand. “It’s a pleasure, as always.”

“Off you trot now, dear. And send my best wishes to Anthea.”

Mycroft nodded his head to her and left her office.

* * *

Mycroft had never been on so many aeroplanes in such a short period before. In a bid to improve relations between different European security services, he and Hugh Seagroves visited France, Germany, Portugal and Italy, with varying success. It involved long days, short sleeps and far too much flying for a man who despised the cramped conditions on board aeroplanes.

* * *

**December, 1995.**

**Location: A bar near Langley, Fairfax County, Virginia.**

_There weren’t many good days. Though unfortunate, in their line of work, it wasn’t surprising. But when there was a good day - and this was a good day - the celebrations could go long into the night in a private function room._

_Mycroft was leaning against the wall, watching with a bemused smile as Jimmy Dine twirled some pretty blonde CIA agent around, while trying to swig from his bottle of beer and spilling some down his shirt. He’d been wearing a cowboy hat for the past hour, though no one was quite sure where it had come from._

_“You look ridiculous,” Mycroft informed him when he finally sauntered over, resting his hands on Mycroft’s hips._

_Jimmy grinned. “And you look fucking boring,” he said. “C’mon. Have a drink. Have a dance.”_

_Mycroft lifted his glass of wine up. “I have one. And I have two left feet. And even if I didn’t, I wouldn’t dance to this… noise.”_

_“Hey. I chose these tunes.”_

_“All the more reason I won’t be dancing. I know your taste in music and frankly it leaves a lot to be desired.” Jimmy smiled, lowering his head and drawing him into a soft kiss. “We shouldn’t do this in public,” Mycroft murmured against his mouth._

_Jimmy nipped his bottom lip. “We could always take this elsewhere,” he said, taking a step back. “Or you could dance with me.”_

_“There will be no dancing.”_

_Jimmy laughed and gulped down the end of his beer. He tipped his hat to Mycroft before capturing the blonde CIA agent into another dance, spinning her around. She playfully rolled her eyes and pushed another drink into his hand. Mycroft smiled, watching him._

_They’d had a good day. Jimmy had devised the plan, and they’d taken out an entire terrorist base in Afghanistan. Jimmy, of course, wished he’d been out there himself rather than dictating the operation from a computer screen. He’d moaned to high heaven that he hadn’t been allowed to shoot some bullets himself. Mostly though, he was getting enough pats on the back to satisfy his ego in the meantime._

_There were only 20 or so of them left at the bar. Toby Goff had left several hours ago. Many of the agents were young, experiencing their first ever ‘good day’. And Jimmy seemed like a god among them, showing them how to love their job and save the day simultaneously._

_It was another half an hour before Jimmy joined him again, thoroughly intoxicated. He pressed his body against Mycroft’s. “I’m not as young as I used to be,” he muttered, dipping his head to kiss Mycroft’s neck. “Come home with me.”_

_Mycroft nodded and plucked his cowboy hat off his head, dropping it onto a table. He stepped away, wrapping an arm around his waist. They wandered out together, Jimmy swigging from his last bottle of beer. They walked down a few streets before hailing a taxi. They got into Jimmy’s house. He took Mycroft’s hands, leading him up the stairs._

_Mycroft could only watch, smiling, as Jimmy stripped his shirt off and turned to his CD player. “You were the life and soul, as ever,” Mycroft said._

_Jimmy smiled, stretching his arms up over his head as the music came on, swaying his hips and ignoring the timing of the music completely. “And you were eye candy, as ever. But you didn’t dance with me.”_

_Mycroft rolled his eyes. “Correct.”_

_“It’s not difficult, I promise.” Jimmy flicked through some tracks before striding towards Mycroft, smiling. He held his hand out and Mycroft sighed, taking it. Jimmy held their hands together, winding one arm around Mycroft’s waist. Mycroft wrapped his other hand around his neck, kissing him lightly._

_“Tell me then,” Jimmy whispered. “Are you glad you gave me a chance and agreed to be with me?”_

_Mycroft nodded. “Yes, actually,” he said, swaying with him to the soft beat._

_“What you thinking about?” Jimmy asked, kissing his cheek before beginning to undo his shirt buttons._

_Mycroft shook his head. “I wasn’t.”_

_“One day, you’re gonna open up to me,” Jimmy whispered, beginning to kiss down Mycroft’s chest before he sunk down to his knees. Mycroft gasped, closing his eyes as Jimmy unfastened his trousers and yanked them down, rubbing his cheek against the front of Mycroft’s boxers. He mouthed Mycroft’s cock through the fabric._

_“We’ve all got secrets,” Jimmy said._

_Mycroft blinked at stared down at him. “Sorry?”_

_“Secrets. We’ve all got ‘em.”_

_“Well, yes. That’s what we do for a-living.”_

_Jimmy nodded. “Yeah. Myc?”_

_“Mmm?”_

_“Let me in, yeah? Don’t be afraid of me.” And then he pulled Mycroft’s boxers down and took his cock into his mouth and Mycroft forgot what they were talking about._

* * *

**October 2006.**

**Location: Whitehall, London.**

Mycroft sat down at his desk, signing the last of his paperwork. He'd barely been back in England for five minutes and then he'd be flying off again. The idea of not seeing Greg before that time was... unacceptable. He handed the papers to Anthea. “How long until I have to leave?” he asked.

“A few hours yet.”

Mycroft nodded. “Can you leave me a moment?” he asked. He waited for her to leave before reaching for his phone, dialling Greg’s number.

“Hello,” Greg answered. “Is everything alright?”

Mycroft paused for a moment as he took in the background noise. The chatter and the sound of plates. “You’re at a restaurant,” Mycroft said, a horrible twinge of jealousy coming over him. “I’m interrupting.”

“No, it’s alright,” Greg said. “What’s up?”

“I found myself with a spare two hours. I wondered whether you were able to come round. But I understand you’re busy.”

“Is it urgent?” Greg asked.

Mycroft sighed, already standing up to leave his office. “No, Greg, it isn’t.”

“Alright. Sure. I’ll be there right away.”

Mycroft frowned. “Greg-”

“I’ll be there. Send the car over to The Indian Diner in Rochester Row.”

Mycroft licked his lips. “Very well.” He walked out of his office and caught Anthea’s attention. She wandered to him from where she was talking to an MP Mycroft didn’t recognise. “Greg Lestrade is coming for a few minutes. Could you… send a car?”

Anthea smiled. “Of course,” she said. “I’ll bring him to you.”

“Thank you. The Indian Diner in Rochester Row.” Mycroft wandered back to his office, straightening his tie. He closed the door, frowning to himself. Greg was at a restaurant. Which could only mean he was with a friend or a date, and Mycroft knew Greg hadn’t gone for a meal with anyone but him since they’d met. “Idiot,” he muttered to himself.

What the hell was he expecting? For Greg to fall for him? For Greg not to find someone else to spend time with while Mycroft jetted off around the world? He poured himself a brandy. He stood by the window, staring out. It was his own fault. Perhaps he should have told him he had feelings for him. But despite that, he didn’t want a relationship with him. And how did he even go about trying to explain that? Particularly when he despised his own feelings and wished he could will them away.

He turned around as the door opened, looking round at Greg. He’d dressed nicely, putting some effort into his hair.

“What was wrong with your date?” he asked.

“She was a bit boring,” Greg said. Mycroft pressed his lips together. So it was a date. Greg leaned against the wall, watching him with a grin. “So, I didn’t think you ever had a loose end,” Greg grinned.

Mycroft chuckled, despite himself. “No, I suppose I don’t really. But I’ll work on the aeroplane.”

“Where you going?” Mycroft frowned, not sure what to say. “Well, good luck, with whatever it is.”

Mycroft nodded. “Thank you.” He put his glass down as Greg walked towards him. He bit his lip. All he’d imagined before was that they’d kiss, and there would be fireworks and it would be wonderful. And now Greg was seeing other people, and Mycroft felt completely on the back foot.

Greg wanted to date someone. That was obvious. And Mycroft knew he couldn’t offer that. He couldn’t offer him anything at all. Greg reached him, placing his hands on Mycroft’s hips.

“Did I get this wrong?” Greg frowned.

“Not at all,” Mycroft replied. He sighed. “Not at all.”

Greg kissed him, and Mycroft forgot to be upset. He tugged him closer, deepening the kisses so he could taste him. The past weeks had left him feeling as though he was clambering up Everest, unable to find a place to rest. But Greg felt so much like… like home. He stroked Greg’s hair, capturing his mouth in a hard kiss as Greg began to pull back.

Mycroft smiled, tilting his head to grant Greg access to his jaw and his neck. He explored Greg’s body where he could reach, and finally dipped his own head to kiss Greg’s neck. He was relieved he couldn’t smell her perfume on Greg’s skin. He sucked a small mark into Greg’s skin, just below his collar, and he took deep pleasure in knowing it was there.

Greg was unfastening Mycroft’s belt and guiding him back into a kiss. Mycroft could feel his own defences coming down. He was sure Greg had to realise that he was intoxicated by him. Greg had to know. He had to feel it, in the way Mycroft searched his mouth. In the way he smiled, in the way he held him.

Greg unfastened Mycroft’s trousers and dropped down to his knees in front of him, a satisfied smile on his face.

“Greg you don’t need-” Mycroft started.

“I know I don’t need to. I want to though.”

Greg pulled down his trousers, rubbing his cheek against Mycroft’s cock through his boxers. Mycroft could only stroke his hair, caressing his head. His legs shook and Greg pulled his underwear down, wrapping a hand around his length and stroking. Mycroft gripped Greg’s hair, closing his eyes.

Greg seemed to know Mycroft’s body as intimately as Mycroft knew his in return. He flicked his tongue out and Mycroft could only shudder, lost in the sensations. He opened his eyes and stared down at him as Greg fisted his own cock.

He encouraged Mycroft to move his hips, and he did so, pushing into Greg’s mouth. Greg was a beautiful man, he thought. He just looked so wanton, kneeling down there, with his lips spread around Mycroft’s cock, his eyes open and observing. Greg was consuming him, he realised. He was breaking him down, making him feel as though perhaps it might be acceptable to… to surrender.

Oh God. Greg stroked his cock harder, flicking his tongue. Mycroft could only touch Greg’s cheek to warn him he was close, and Mycroft shuddered as he came, the world melting into nothing but pleasure. He breathed hard. He stared down at Greg, who was still stroking his own cock.

Mycroft dropped down to wrap his hand around him, hot and hard in his hand. Greg groaned, and came, pulling Mycroft into a kiss. Mycroft sighed against his lips, sitting down onto the floor. He pulled his boxers up and wiped his hand on his handkerchief. He glanced at Greg, catching his eye for a second before they each looked away.

“So, was that a good enough welcome back and going away again present?” Greg asked.

“Yes, it was,” Mycroft answered.

“How long you going to be away this time?”

“A week at most. Hopefully.”

Greg smiled. “Thanks for interrupting my date. This was better.” Mycroft laughed and Greg stood up. He held his hand out and Mycroft took it and got dressed. “Well,” Greg said. “I should head back home.”

Mycroft nodded. “Enjoy your days off.”

“I will.” He kissed Mycroft again and all he could do was respond, wrapping his arms around him and pulling him close. He tried to embed how it felt into his memory. He never wanted to stop.

There was a knock on the door. Mycroft sighed, kissing Greg once more and putting his belt back on. Anthea walked in. “The car’s here early, sir,” she said. “The pilot said there are some strong winds forecast and we should leave sooner rather than later.” She smiled and left them alone again.

“Right, well, have a good trip,” Greg said.

“Thank you.”

“Be safe, yeah?”

“I will.”

Greg smiled, squeezing Mycroft’s shoulder. Mycroft could only watch him leave, standing dumbly in the centre of his office. Anthea stood in the doorway, raising her eyebrows. “Not a word,” Mycroft murmured.

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” she said. “But I’m happy for you.”

Mycroft didn’t have the heart to tell her no relationship existed for her to be happy for.

* * *

**Location: UN Security Council, New York, New York, United States of America.**

Officially, Mycroft had no need to be there at all. But the following day, there would be a crucial UN Security Council vote to select the next United Nations Security-General. And Mycroft had made his mind up. There was only one man he wanted them to select, and he was rank outsider Ban Ki-Moon.

Despite Mycroft’s concerns about him, he had a feeling he could help in discussions over North Korea. And he was the only candidate not to have received a veto thus far.

Mycroft sat down with the UN French representative over a dinner, speaking to him candidly in French about the benefits of voting for him. He knew Ban had already won the support of the majority of the member states, but there were some reservations in France. Nonetheless, Mycroft thought he’d settled most of them.

By the time the vote came, he received 14 votes and one abstention from Japan. Mycroft was already on an aeroplane when the news came in, but when Anthea woke him as they were about to land, he felt somewhat encouraged about the future of North Korean negotiations.

* * *

**Location: Brussels, Belgium.**

Mycroft was sat in the hotel bar, sipping a whiskey while Anthea nursed a cocktail. They were working, in theory, although they’d spent the past hour deducing everyone who walked past. Anthea was getting remarkably good at it.

It held half of his attention, but he was also thinking of Greg. He couldn’t help it. Even while he sat in meetings or debates, Greg wasn’t far from his mind. He had a missed phone call from him, but he didn’t know how to answer it. But he thought about him. Often. Often enough that he began to wonder if he was spending far too much time lying to himself.

“Greg’s worried about Sherlock,” Anthea informed him the next day. “He just left a message with me.

Mycroft nodded. “I’m sure they’ll both manage.”

Anthea nodded, tucking her phone away. “Very well then,” she said.

Mycroft glanced down at his phone. He sat up immediately. “North Korea’s carried out a nuclear test,” he muttered. He slammed his hand against the table. “I need to go back to New York. I need a meeting immediately with the Prime Minister, Secretary for Defence and the British representative on the Security…” He paused as his phone rang. “Yes?” he answered.

“Mr Switch would like to speak to you,” a woman told him.

Mycroft nodded. “Put him right through.” He waited all of six seconds before the phone call was diverted straight through to the Prime Minister. “Mr Prime Minister, good evening."

“You’ve heard the news?”

“North Korea?” Mycroft asked.

“That’s the one. Thoughts?”

“Set up a meeting with the Defence Secretary and the British UN Security Council member. Also America’s Secretary of State for Defence. We need to push for immediate financial sanctions against North Korea.”

“That’s your response?” the Prime Minister asked.

“Well, condemn it, obviously. Get on the phone to the US President and offer your support. You need to urge him to sit down for talks with North Korea immediately. Perhaps he’ll have a little tact.” Mycroft chewed his lip. “I’m in Belgium, but I can go straight to New York to guide the Security Council.”

“Sanctions?”

“Yes,” Mycroft said, watching as Anthea began looking up flights on her laptop. “Not just against North Korea, but with some of those countries we know have done arms deals with North Korea in the past. We’ve got to stop weapons manufacturers sending…” He frowned to himself. “On second thoughts, Mr Prime Minister, I believe my expertise may be better utilised elsewhere.”

“Really?”

“Press for sanctions with the UN. Weapons, supplies, anything to discourage further tests. In the mean time, I’ll meet with some weapons suppliers, because undoubtedly some of them will feel hard done by with the additional sanctions we’re imposing on them too.”

“Is that really the best use of your time?” the Prime Minister asked.

“It is,” Mycroft assured him. “So much so, that you won’t even realise.”

“Alright then. Thanks.” The Prime Minister hung up and Anthea frowned at him.

“Well?” she asked. “Where are we going?”

“We’re going wherever Rickard Luck is.”

Anthea nodded, reaching for her phone. Mycroft left her and went to his hotel room to pack his bags.

After only an hour, they were on their way to the airport, heading back to the UK to meet with Rickard Luck. They had a hotel in Southampton, and by the morning, Jim Braum had driven there to meet them, along with Mycroft’s most expensive pocket watch and cufflinks. He stood in front of his mirror, straightening his tie and combing his hair.

War.

There was no other way of describing what this meeting was. A battle of wits and wills. And worse than that, it was on Rickard Luck’s territory, under his roof, in his office. Even Anthea seemed tense as they drove to the RL6 building, fiddling with her phone but not looking at it.

As they pulled up outside the building, Mycroft managed a smile. “Right then,” he murmured. “Into battle.”

Mycroft was shown into Rickard’s office while Anthea remained outside. Mycroft stepped over the threshold. Rickard was sat behind his enormous desk, a glass of water in one hand, a smirk on his face. He stood up, and put his glass down on the table. Mycroft nodded to him. “Mr Luck,” he said, waiting for him to lift his hand. “I’m very pleased to meet you.”

Rickard smiled and reached out. Mycroft shook his hand, and they held each other’s eyes. Mycroft studied him, finding very little about him to give anything away. No extramarital affairs, no sign of an alcohol or drug problem or smoking habit. No indications that he was a gambler.

“So, sit down then,” Rickard said and Mycroft did so. “So, Mycroft. I have absolutely no idea who you are.”

Mycroft smiled coolly at him, immediately ill at ease. He knew Rickard knew exactly who he was, but Mycroft couldn’t catch him in that lie. He hated skilled liars. “And my apologies that our paths haven’t crossed before now,” he said. “Would it be useful if I told you about myself?”

“Not really. What are you here for?”

“I’m here to discuss the countries you provide weapons to.”

“Britain, United States, Australia and South Africa. Mostly the UK. Often I’m kind enough to give the British military exclusives.”

Mycroft nodded. “I see. You did, 12 years ago, have weapons end up in North Korea.”

Rickard laughed. “Yeah, but we didn’t send ‘em there. They just got there. Given to them by some other Government, I think.”

“You think.”

“It’s not my responsibility what people do with my weapons once they’re in their hands. I looked you up, Mycroft. I couldn’t find much on you, but I heard a rumour you have the ear of the Prime Minister.”

Mycroft nodded. “I do.”

“Why won’t he sign off on my new submarines? They’re beautiful machinery.”

Mycroft knew why. Because he’d told the Prime Minister that RL6 had already given the United States far superior models. “I’m afraid I don’t know.”

“So why are you here?”

“The United Nations are proposing sanctions against the export of weapons to North Korea, and other countries.”

“Yeah, got the memo and it’s all sorted,” Rickard said with an easy smile. “No exporting to the nuke-freaks in North Korea. Do you want a drink?”

Mycroft nodded. “Certainly.”

Rickard leaned forward, picking up his jug of water and pushing the glass over his desk towards Mycroft. Mycroft nodded a thanks and had a sip. “I was very impressed with the new Twister aircraft model,” he said.

Rickard grinned. “They’re my babies,” he said. “Except no one wants them.”

“Why not?”

“Too powerful, if you’d believe it. Too much risk of destroying innocent lives while taking out the Taliban.” Rickard shrugged. “We’ll make the changes and then they’ll be used.”

Mycroft pressed his lips together. “Causalities are a natural consequence of war, are they not?” he asked, his own words making his gut twist. “Even innocent ones.”

“Agreed,” Rickard said, eyeing him curiously.

“So, surely, winning is more important than any of their lives.”

“Agreed again,” Rickard said. “How much weight does the PM give to your opinions?”

“A fair amount,” Mycroft replied.

“Get him to pay for my Twisters. Honestly, they’re the best thing ever to come out of my factories.”

“Has anyone else agreed to pay for them?”

“Nope.”

Mycroft nodded, and he knew that was a lie too. That parts of a Twister had appeared in the collection of weapons discovered in Minsk in January. “Perhaps I can twist the Prime Minister’s arm,” Mycroft said, quirking a smile. “Excuse the pun.”

Rickard laughed, tilting his head back. “Brilliant,” he said. "You do that. I reckon you and me should work together on convincing the PM. It's fucking annoying that he can have anything he wants for his military and keeps saying no." 

Mycroft stood up, smiling. “I’ll do all I can to assist you,” he said. They shook hands and Mycroft left the room, frowning and uneasy.

“How did it go?” Anthea asked.

“I think we’re even,” Mycroft muttered, leading her back out to the car. He took out his phone and flicked through his contacts until he reached Greg’s name and pressed call and invited him to Crusader House to discuss Sherlock.

When he finally got home, he unpacked and showered. He was still combing his hair when he heard the front door open. Frowning, he stepped out of his bedroom to see Sherlock there, his eyes glazed. “Oh God,” Mycroft muttered.

“I’m not here long,” Sherlock announced, slumping across the settee. “Give me what I came for and I’ll be gone.”

“What, exactly, did you come for?”

“Get me a drink.”

Mycroft rolled his eyes and wandered back into his bedroom instead, closing the door behind him. He finished getting dressed, inspecting his face in the mirror. He looked tired, that much was certain.

He walked out, taking a seat in his usual chair. Sherlock was typing on his phone. “What did you take?” Mycroft asked, watching him.

“Experiments.”

“Experiments,” Mycroft repeated.

“Mmm. Heroin got boring.”

Mycroft shook his head, exasperated. “Just go, Sherlock.”

“No, think I’ll annoy you some more. What are you doing anyway?” He looked up at Mycroft, studied him for a second and then covered his face with a cushion. “Why?” he groaned from behind it. “Do you have to rub it in my face, day in, day out? I’d tell you to find someone else but… well, who else would have you?” Mycroft frowned and watched him. “Lestrade must be so desperate after his divorce.”

“Jealous, Sherlock?” Mycroft asked.

Sherlock snorted. “Of you? Hardly.”

Mycroft hummed, looking up as the door opened and Greg walked in, smiling. His attention immediately turned to Sherlock. “I didn’t know you were going to be here.”

“I wish I could have said the same,” Sherlock muttered.

Mycroft sighed. “Play nice, Sherlock. How was your day?” he asked, turning to Greg.

“Not bad actually.”

Mycroft poured them each a brandy, carrying it over to him. Their fingers brushed together, and Mycroft’s eyes flicked to his. Greg smiled first, his eyes lighting up, and Mycroft couldn’t help but return it. He felt warmth spread over his cheeks and he returned to his seat, butterflies in his stomach.

“So, Sherlock, how’ve you been?” Greg asked.

“Sherlock has been ‘experimenting’,” Mycroft said with disdain. “Apparently heroin was ‘boring’.”

Greg stared at Sherlock. “Heroin got ‘boring?’ What the hell did you replace it with?”

“Homemade experiments,” Sherlock, said, throwing the cushion the floor and sitting up. “Mycroft, I didn’t come here for a lecture.”

“Then what did you come here for?”

“I want my violin.”

“You may have it. When you stop acting like an insolent child.”

Sherlock glared at him. “Perhaps if I had my violin, I wouldn’t need to experiment.”

“As much as I would like to believe that, I think your past record proves that would be unlikely.”

“I know you moved my dealer on.”

Mycroft tilted his head. “And how would I possibly do that, Sherlock?”

“You know how,” Sherlock muttered. Mycroft frowned. He wasn’t actually sure what Sherlock thought he’d done. He’d had no contact with Sherlock’s dealer at all. “I can find another dealer.”

“That I do believe,” Mycroft replied.

“I never take too much,” Sherlock said. “I’ve calculated my body weight and my heart rate precisely. I know just the perfect amount to give myself.”

“And yet still you’ve almost killed yourself in the past,” Mycroft replied.

“I test it now,” Sherlock retorted.

“One day that will not be enough.”

Sherlock offered a big fake smile. “Oh, I don’t know. One day, too much might be just enough.”

“Do not talk about your death like that,” Mycroft snapped.

“Why? Like you would mind having me out of your hair. What’s left of it.”

“Do not try and test the level of my affection for you,” Mycroft warned.

Sherlock snorted. “Affection? Is that what you call interfering in my life?”

“Stop being a dickhead,” Greg finally cut in. Mycroft glanced at him. “Look, shock tactics don’t work. Taking away your favourite things doesn’t work. What’s it going to be, Sherlock? Wait until you choke on your own vomit?”

“You both have such a power complex,” Sherlock whined. “Why don’t you both just leave me alone?”

“Because we want you clean,” Greg said.

“And why is that, Detective Inspector? So you feel better about yourself? So I solve all your cases for you so you get a promotion? Just ask Mycroft, I’m sure he can arrange that for you without any trouble.”

“Sherlock!” Mycroft snapped.

Sherlock turned to Mycroft, glaring at him. “You always ruin everything. Why can’t you leave me alone?”

Mycroft stood up, taking a few paces towards him. “Sherlock. You will resume work with the Detective Inspector. What he and I do outside of working hours is none of your concern.”

“And what happens when you destroy everything?”

“Oi,” Greg cut in. “We’re only shagging. No one’s destroyed anything.”

Sherlock snorted and Mycroft felt his heckles rise. “You always take my things,” Sherlock said.

“Things?” Greg asked, raising his eyebrows. “Wait, what I’m not your ‘thing’, Sherlock.”

“Sherlock, do grow up,” Mycroft muttered.

Sherlock stood up. “The pair of you are disgusting. Carrying on as though your relationship means anything. You know something’s coming, Mycroft. We all know Lestrade was nearly killed because of you, so how long as you going to allow this facade to continue? He probably believes you care about him. But we both know you are incapable of that.”

Mycroft pressed his lips together, and he wondered how Sherlock could be so very dense. Sherlock didn’t think he cared? Good God, Mycroft thought if he could care anymore, his heart would burst right out of his chest.

Sherlock stormed to the door. “Don’t do any more drug experiments,” Mycroft called after him, but Sherlock just shut the door.

Greg sighed. “He’s going to use again.”

Mycroft sat down and sipped his drink. He stared at the door for a moment, trying to work out what he could possibly do to make any of this mess better. “I know. It’s the only battle I’ve ever lost.”

“It’s not lost yet.”

“I worry about him.”

“I know. So do I. God knows, I wish I didn’t. I wish I thought he can do whatever he likes, but I don’t think that because I do like him.”

Mycroft bit his lip. “Greg, the things Sherlock said-”

Greg held his hand up to cut him off. “We don’t want to have a talk about it,” Greg said. “Let’s just carry on the way it is, yeah? It works that way.”

Mycroft nodded, sitting back in his chair. He took a breath, grateful Greg stopped him. He wasn’t sure what he was about to say, but he imagined it was up there with the worst things he could have said. “Very well.”

Greg sipped his drink, his nose wrinkling. Mycroft watched him for a moment. Greg hated brandy, he thought. Why on earth did he keep drinking it? Mycroft collected his glass from him and poured him a whiskey instead. He sat down beside him on the settee, glancing around his home. “What are we going to do about Sherlock?” he asked.

Greg shook his head. “I don’t know.”

Mycroft paused. “Have you got your cigarettes?”

“Er, yeah.” Greg reached into his jacket pocket and handed Mycroft the box.

“Would you like to join me on the balcony?” Mycroft asked as he stood up, carrying his drink across the room. He opened the doors, taking a step outside. It was fresh outside, but not unpleasantly so. He turned to Greg, slipping a cigarette out and placing it between his lips. Greg lit the cigarette for him and Mycroft leaned against the railing, taking a long inhale.

It had been some months since his last cigarette, but it immediately relaxed him, even if it was a little stronger than he’d have preferred. He glanced at Greg before handing it over and Greg took a drag.

Mycroft watched the cars drive by as they shared the cigarette between them. He wondered if he had a right to always feel like this. If he had a right to feel welcomed into someone’s life. He glanced at Greg as he handed the cigarette over to him, their fingers brushing together. It was familiar, yet new, those soft touches. He inhaled the cool air, watching Greg out of the corner of his eye.

He had the cigarette resting between his fingers, a soft smile on his face as he stared down into the road. Mycroft longed to step into his head, just for a moment, just to work out how he could smile so easily. Mycroft almost smiled himself, until he realised that of course it couldn’t always be this way. Greg had almost lost his life because of him.

And that started a chain of thoughts, one after the other, his work coming to him in a rush. He had too many concerns, too many problems to solve. He had one last inhale of the cigarette before stamping it out with his heel. Greg’s hand came to rest on the back of his neck, it cool against against his skin. Mycroft turned to him and captured his mouth in a kiss.

Greg appeared to welcome it, expect it even. His lips moved against Mycroft’s with practised ease. And for a moment, a few moments, Mycroft’s head stilled.

He turned back to the road, and wrapped an arm around Greg’s waist. His heart was pounding, and he had to swallow it down. He felt as though he was stood on a precipice, being chased by unknown enemies from one side, with crystal clear waters down below. He didn’t know if he could take that leap into them.

And what if he did? The clear waters could be deceiving, with nothing but rocks and sharks down below. He couldn’t win, no matter what he chose. A life without Greg or a life with him. Both were fraught were challenges, and Mycroft couldn’t tell if Greg was safer if he was active in protecting him, or safer if he had nothing to do with him.

“Sherlock was right,” Mycroft finally murmured. “Something is coming. The signs are perfectly clear.”

“What are they after?” Greg asked.

“An untold number of things. Secrets, power, control. The more I know about the world, the more I wish I didn’t. I am almost 37. And I am only just fully appreciating the things people will do for power. They don’t care about nations, and status quo. They care about money in their pockets and bribery and deceit. And my instinct is to protect Sherlock from that. But of course, he is no longer a child. Despite his petulance.”

Mycroft paused, weighing up his options. To take the leap and choose Greg. Or to send him on his way, and accept the daggers stabbing into his heart. “So, when Sherlock says this cannot continue, he is quite correct.” And there he saw it. His life, stretched out, through his 40s and his 50s and his 60s. And yes, he’d be safer without the intimacy, and he wouldn’t spend his life waiting for the inevitable pain but… That hurt far more. Perhaps it was truly better to let love in than spend his life wondering what it would feel like if only he’d had it once.

“But what might we deduce about me, Greg?” Mycroft asked, watching his breath in the air. He gripped the railing. “When my drug of choice is falling into bed with you?”

“I don’t know,” Greg replied.

“Nor do I. But it’s far more agreeable than Sherlock’s heroin habit.”

“Yeah, that’s true,” Greg said. Mycroft turned to him and he smiled, and he leaped. Look after my heart, he thought. Please, just look after my heart. “You have a tough week?” Greg asked.

Mycroft nodded. “Being a veterinarian would have been far simpler.”

Greg laughed. “Hey, you said nearly 37? Is it your birthday soon?”

“Next week,” Mycroft said. “Tuesday.”

“You want to go for dinner?”

Mycroft paused. “Very well. I suppose it’s your turn to choose.”

“It’s your birthday, we can go wherever you want.”

“Then I would like you to decide.”

Greg nodded. “Alright. I’ll think of something.”

Mycroft put his drink down before taking Greg’s glass away too. He took hold of him, kissing him, sealing it in his mind. No more questions, no more second guessing. He’d let Greg have him and take him. He’d let it in, because what choice did he have? He was already far too gone to turn back now.

And with that realisation, peace came over him. He accepted how he felt, and it was wonderful. He had Greg in his arms, and his lips against his. He cared and was cared for. Greg was everything. He kissed Greg’s jaw, silently promising to always care. Silently promising he wouldn’t stop protecting him. Because ultimately, when Greg entered his world, he would find himself facing all sorts of threats. All Mycroft could do was promise one thing to him: He would always put Greg’s life first.

Danger. That was Mycroft’s world, and Greg would need to get used to it - if he wasn’t already.

“Do you think they can see?” Mycroft whispered, feeling the first signs of Greg’s arousal against his own. Mycroft kissed his neck, nuzzling it with his nose.

“Who?” Greg asked.

“The world down below.”

Greg glanced around. “I think if your living room light was off then it would be too dark.”

Mycroft stepped away from him, licking his lips. “Wait there.” He walked into the living room and turned the light off. He walked back onto the balcony and all he could do was take Greg’s face in his hands and kiss him, long and hard.

He’d given in. He’d given in to his heart, refusing his head. He wanted… he wanted to love Greg. Because it made him a better man. Because it gave him something to fight for. Because it reminded him there was good in the world. Because he felt better for it.

He backed Greg into the wall, pressing their hips together. Don’t leave, he willed as they kissed. Please give me time. Please just… just stay, stay here, right in my heart. And wait for me, and let me find you. He kissed him with everything he could, wishing it was enough. Please give me time. Wait until I have the strength to let myself be yours, completely and utterly.

He pulled Greg’s trousers down, and Greg did the same to him. He could hear everything. Every car, every footstep, every door closing, every key in the door. And they couldn’t see them there, wrapped in each other. They couldn’t see as Mycroft made Greg shudder and made his knees shake.

“Do you hear it?” Mycroft asked. “The noise?”

“Yeah,” Greg murmured.

“They’re all so unobservant,” Mycroft whispered, pulling down Greg’s underwear. Greg shuddered and pulled Mycroft’s down too. Mycroft rocked their hips together as he kissed Greg again. Mycroft wrapped his hand around both their cocks, kissing him with unrestrained need.

“Shh, now,” Mycroft murmured at the sound of Greg’s groan.

“How can I be quiet when you’re doing that?” Greg murmured back, grazing his lips over Mycroft’s throat. Mycroft titled his head back, allowing him the access he craved. “It’s like you know all the things to do to drive me crazy.”

“Oh, but I do,” Mycroft whispered back. He flicked his wrist, just a bit, and Greg shook against him.

“God,” Greg gasped.

“Just look,” Mycroft breathed out. “Just look at the street. All those people walking past. Unobservant. Oblivious, as I make you come undone right here, in the open.”

Mycroft stroked their cocks, listening to Greg’s shaky breaths. He didn’t want it to end. He wanted to keep them here, suspended in a moment, letting the world race by while they were still. While they were together, because it happened rarely enough as it was. Mycroft stilled his hand.

“What-”

“You are very rarely patient,” Mycroft murmured with a smile.

“I’m bloody desperate here,” Greg breathed out, and Mycroft silenced him with another kiss. But Greg’s hand joined Mycroft’s. He touched him in all the right ways. He touched him like an experienced lover. He touched him with chilled hands, but it felt perfect against Mycroft’s warm body.

His mind broke down, one little thread, one little thought at a time. There they were, the two of them. Fallible, so fallible. Just people, just men, just ordinary men. Mycroft lost sense of perspective, he lost his mind, he lost everything. He gained one thing, and that was the greatest thing he could gain. He gained a man to love.

Whatever happened next, whatever happened, Mycroft would treasure every second spent with him. Even if never meant to Greg what Greg meant to him… He gasped, and Greg groaned against him, both coming, both surrendering to pleasure.

Mycroft leaned against him. His mind was still. His heart was pounding. His skin was on fire, covered in goosebumps all the same. Mycroft kissed him once and then got dressed, gazing at Greg as he did the same. He led them back inside and turned a light on as Greg sat down on the settee, smiling.

Mycroft sat with him, closing his eyes in delight as Greg nuzzled and kissed his neck. “Where did that come from?” Greg asked, rubbing his thigh. “You’re unbelievable.”

Mycroft kissed his cheek. “You spend your life abiding by rules. I thought you might like a bit of danger.”

Greg chuckled. “Alright. Yeah. It was good. I’ll give you that.”

Mycroft kissed him again, slowly. He watched as Greg poured them another drink, wandering over and straddling Mycroft’s lap.

“What on earth are you doing?” Mycroft asked, smiling at him, and shaking his head.

“I’m sitting on you,” Greg grinned.

“And why, may I ask, are you doing that?”

Greg kissed him and grinned. “Because it felt like the right thing to do.”

Mycroft laughed. “Incorrigible.”

“You use that word a lot around me.” Greg sat back down on the settee beside him. Mycroft frowned for a moment. Oh. Simple. Idiot. It came to him in a rush that of course he needed to work with Rickard Luck rather than against him. Of course he needed to convince the Prime Minister to approve his damned Twisters. “What are you thinking?” Greg asked.

Mycroft turned to him. “I was thinking sex with you was excellent to start with and seems to be getting better, and far surpassing any of my previous experiences. And in the past 20 seconds I have just solved a frankly ridiculous conundrum we were trying to deal with at work this week.”

Greg laughed. “You just thought all that at once?”

“I was solving the puzzle in the background of my mind, I assure you. I was completely engaged in the sex.”

Greg laughed and Mycroft held him to his chest.

“So, how many people have you slept with?” Greg asked.

Mycroft frowned, counting it out. “You are the seventh.”

“All men?”

“Yes.”

Greg nodded. “You’re the best sex I had too.”

Mycroft glanced at him. “You were married for 16 years.”

Greg shrugged. “It must be your deduction skills or something making you amazing in bed. It’s different with women. Not bad-different or good-different, just different.” Greg covered Mycroft’s lap with his legs, leaning onto him. Mycroft tightened his hold on him.

“Should go home,” Greg murmured.

“Mm.”

“You’re warm.”

“I’m convinced your body temperature is a degree lower than the average person’s,” Mycroft said, closing his own eyes.

“Don’t know for sure, but I don’t think that’s scientifically possible,” Greg replied.

“The idea every person is the exactly same temperature is one of many lies adults tell small children,” Mycroft informed him, playing with Greg’s hair where it met his neck.

“It was very depressing when Pluto stopped being a planet a couple of months ago,” Greg said.

Mycroft chuckled. “Why was that?”

“Because I used the rhyme. You know the one? My Very Easy Method Just Shows Us Nine Planets? Well, now my easy method just shows me nine nothings. No more planets. No more Pluto.”

Mycroft kissed his head. “Why did that bother you so much?”

“Pretty much the only thing I remember from school. And how to spell ‘because’.”

“Because?”

“Big elephants can always understand small elephants.”

Mycroft laughed. “I’ve never heard that.”

“Probably because you were a smart kid who could spell.”

“Yes, that’s possibly correct,” Mycroft agreed.

Greg hit him gently. “Bastard. Didn’t have to agree.”

“I had trouble with mathematics,” Mycroft admitted.

“Really?”

Mycroft smiled a little. “Really. Long division. And quadratic equations. All terribly embarrassing, especially as our mother is a mathematical genius. Sherlock was incredibly gifted at it, of course. Thankfully he never saw the trouble it gave me at school.”

“I was good at PE.”

“I was good at fencing. Sherlock ended up being better.”

Greg laughed. “Did he beat you?”

“On the one occasion we thought it would be a good idea to compete against one another, yes. I’m sure you look wonderful in shorts when you play football.”

“I don’t know about that.”

Mycroft stroked his hair. “I’m convinced you’re always attractive.”

Greg laughed. “You’re good for my ego.”

“Likewise.”

Greg smiled and kissed his chin. “Right.” Mycroft frowned as Greg began to move. “Right, I’m really going this time.” He stood up.

Mycroft watched him, and did the same. “I’ll walk you to the door,” he said.

Greg walked there, not taking another look back at all. He put his hand on the door handle, and Mycroft reached for him, trying to show him that he was trying. Trying, desperately trying, to show him that he was ready to care for him.

Greg kissed him, sweet and gentle.

“Goodnight,” Mycroft murmured. “I’ll see you Tuesday.”

“Looking forward to it. Night.” Greg smiled at him, his eyes crinkling at the corners until he left.

Mycroft leaned against the wall. He sighed to himself and smiled, shaking his head in amusement. He cleaned up their glasses and took himself to bed, and if he closed his eyes while imagining Greg’s lips against his and Greg’s arms around him, then he wasn’t ashamed to admit it to himself.

And if he he felt satisfied, and if he felt content, then no one could tell him that was wrong. No one could tell him he was wrong.


	25. Hidden In Plain Sight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm afraid there won't be any updates this weekend as I'm heading Oop North for a trip to York and Sheffield. I hope you all have a lovely weekend, and I adore you all for your support and encouragement :)

**October 2006.**

**Location: Whitehall, London.**

It was Tuesday. And it was Mycroft’s birthday. And both of those things were unimportant in the grand scheme of things.

Mycroft had never cared about birthdays, and if he were honest, he wasn’t a big fan of Tuesdays either. He always met the Prime Minister on Tuesdays. The meetings always over-ran and Anthea got frustrated and had to schedule the Prime Minister’s anticipated lateness into the plans for the day. Somehow he would always run over Anthea’s allotted over-run time and that only served to make her grumpy.

And it was Mycroft’s birthday, and nothing could be more unimportant in his eyes. He’d survived another 365 days. Good for him.

Except that when he got to work, he found he already had an email in his inbox from Greg. It didn’t say much. Just ‘Happy birthday. See you tonight’. But it made him smile and then roll his eyes at his own sentiment.

He replied with a ‘thank you’ and then urged Anthea to keep his evening free. “If anything happens tonight,” he muttered to her, “I don’t know what I’ll do.”

She frowned at him for a moment, twirling her pen between her fingers. “What’s tonight?” she asked.

Mycroft glanced across at her, suddenly realising what’d he’d said. “Nothing. I just want to finish early.”

She nodded, smiled, and got up to leave. “Happy birthday, by the way, sir,” she said.

Mycroft opened his mouth, about to remind her that there was no need for her to remind him what day it was and that birthdays really were not important. But he sighed and smiled. “Thank you,” he said.

He left work early. He showered and dressed in a new suit, teaming it with a red tie because he knew that Greg liked the colour. He stared at himself in the full-length mirror, smoothing down his suit. He shook his head a little, wondering when he’d let himself fall so hard.

It had been a relatively soft landing, he supposed, all things considered. He walked out of Crusader House and smiled at Jim Braum, who handed him a £5 note. Mycroft frowned at it. “What am I supposed to do with this, exactly?” he asked.

“Heard a rumour it was your birthday. Get yourself a drink on me.”

Mycroft smiled and tucked it into his wallet. “Thank you,” he said. “Could we go to Greg Lestrade’s flat, please?”

“Yes, sir.”

Mycroft checked his suit again, watching out of the window as they drove the short distance to Petty France. Greg was already stood by the front door to his building, wrapped up in a coat with a blue scarf. He grinned as he saw the car, opening the door and sliding along the back seat. “Happy birthday,” he said, and Mycroft seemed to be getting used to replying to that sentiment when he replied with a ‘thank you’. “Have you had a nice day?” Greg asked.

“Nothing out of the ordinary, so I suppose so. Where would you like to go?”

“I was planning a Mexican place in Covent Garden. Cantina Laredo. We went there for Carter’s birthday a few years ago and it was great.”

Mycroft nodded and told Jim where to drive to. He looked over as Greg handed him a small gift, wrapped in brightly-coloured wrapping paper covered in balloons. He weighed the box in his hand. It was some sort of jewellery or accessory. The box wasn’t large enough to be for a watch or a chain. It was thin, though, perhaps for cufflinks or a tie pin. He peeled off the paper, flicking open the grey box.

It was a silver tie pin, with a sovereign’s orb in the centre. It wasn’t expensive, perhaps no more than £30. In fact, at that price, it was almost certainly the cheapest in Mycroft’s collection. But it meant the most, somehow.

“It was stupid, wasn’t it?” Greg asked.

“You really shouldn’t have,” Mycroft murmured.

“I know, it’s… it’s not good, is it?” Greg agreed. “It’s really tack-”

“-Perfect,” Mycroft finished, turning to him.

Greg smiled over at him, and it made Mycroft’s cheeks warm. “Really?” Greg asked. “You actually like it?”

“You shouldn’t have. But it’s wonderful.”

Mycroft pinned it on. It was a thoughtful gift. And in some ways, Mycroft appreciated that Greg hadn’t spent much on him. He evidently wasn’t intimidated by Mycroft’s more substantial wealth, and that was welcome in itself.

Cantina Laredo was a welcoming restaurant, warmly lit and bright inside. They had a table for two by the window, where they could look out into the road. Mycroft hung his coat up on the back of his chair, and smiled across at Greg as they each took their seats. Greg had worn a light stripy shirt, unbuttoned at the top.

Mycroft collected the wine menu and pointed out a bottle to Greg, which he ordered.

“How are you?” Mycroft asked, as the waitress left them to browse the menu.

“Yeah, good. Not seen your brother around though.”

Mycroft shook his head. “I am keeping an eye on him, don’t worry.”

“Your security is keeping well away though. Barely notice they’re there.”

Mycroft smiled at him. “Sounds as though they need some training. You shouldn’t notice them at all.”

Greg laughed. “Do you want starters?”

“Do you?”

“Yeah, definitely. We could have one of the sharing dishes if you want?”

Mycroft skimmed over the offerings. “The botanas platter?” Mycroft asked.

“Brilliant, yeah.”

The waitress carried over the wine and Mycroft tasted it. “It’s fine,” he said.

“How do you know?” Greg asked. “I mean, what do you do if it’s disgusting?”

“I’m only checking it isn’t corked,” Mycroft said.

“What happens if it is?”

“It wouldn’t taste very nice. You’d know if it were corked.”

“Have you ever been to Mexico?” Greg asked.

“Twice.”

“What’s it like?”

“Chaotic. Loud.”

“Too loud?”

“I prefer London,” Mycroft said. He ordered the seabass, while Greg chose the camarones escondidos. “When are you 40?” Mycroft asked.

Greg groaned. “Did you have to remind me? November 29th.”

“Are you planning anything?”

“No. Not really. I guess I’ll have to do something since it’s a big one.”

“I’m sure it won’t be as bad as you are expecting.”

“That’s because you’re only 37.”

Mycroft smirked, leaning back in his chair. “Actually, I’m still 36 until 10.45pm.”

Greg laughed. “Don’t need to rub it in, Mycroft.”

Mycroft laughed too and sipped his wine, gazing across at him. “You look quite wonderful. For an older man.”

Greg nudged Mycroft’s shin with his shoe. Mycroft couldn’t help but smile even wider as Greg’s eyes sparkled with mirth while he pretended to look put out. “Watch it. I might be older but I have the stamina of a 20-year-old.”

“Is that so? I believe I need a practical demonstration.”

“Have you not had enough of those yet?” Greg grinned.

“Not even close,” Mycroft murmured.

Greg burst out laughing. “You’re incorrigible.” Mycroft laughed. “You look so good when you laugh,” Greg added. “Tell me what you’ve been up to at work. I saw the bit in the news about that Korean bloke, by the way.”

Mycroft nodded. “Ban Ki-moon?”

“Yeah. Good job.”

Mycroft smiled. “I am ultimately pleased with how that went. North Korea has been causing a lot of headaches recently.”

“Oh, the nuclear test? Yeah, read about that.”

“And you heard about the United Nations Security Council Resolution 1718?”

Greg shrugged. “Maybe. Not enough to remember what it is.”

Mycroft smiled, sipping his wine as he began to tell him about the sanctions.

“You’re involved in anything and everything,” Greg said, frowning.

“It was never what I set out to do,” Mycroft said.

“What did you set out to do?”

Their starter was carried over, and Mycroft began to put some pieces onto his plate. “Protect the security of the United Kingdom.”

“And now?” Greg asked.

“I continue to help protect the security of the United Kingdom,” Mycroft replied. “With a few more fingers in a few more pies.”

Greg nodded. “It’s amazing. Terrifying. You know that right?”

Mycroft nodded. “Yes, sometimes it bothers me too.”

Greg looked up at him. “I like that you’re involved. I feel like the country owes you a massive favour and we don’t even know it.”

Mycroft laughed and shook his head. “Nonsense.”

“Well, I think I owe you a massive favour. For making the past year a lot more bearable after my divorce.” Greg held up his wine. “So, happy birthday, Mycroft.”

Mycroft smiled, clinking their glasses together. He glanced up as the doors opened and a couple walked in. Mycroft gave them a once over. For all intents and purposes, they seemed everything of a normal couple. Except as they got to the table, the woman opened her handbag to take out a lipstick. She put her purse on the table, and sticking out of it was a black card, with a little red dice on the corner. RL6’s logo.

There were no coincidences. He and Greg had been followed, somehow. Mycroft pressed his lips together.

“Will you excuse me for a few moments?” Mycroft asked, still staring at them. He hardly heard Greg’s agreement as he slipped outside. He dialled Jim’s number. “We’ve been followed,” he said.

“What? Really? I swear, I didn’t see anyone tail us.”

“Would you know?” Mycroft asked.

“Definitely. I suppose someone could have followed us but… I always keep an eye out.”

Mycroft paused for a moment, suddenly impressed. “I didn’t know that,” he admitted. “Where are you?”

“Well, I’ve just popped into the pub to watch the football. I’m in the area.”

“Good. I may need you later, but stay where you are for now.” He hung up and called for Anthea. “Minor problem,” he said. “One of RL6’s employees is at a restaurant I’m at. Perhaps two of them.”

“Are you sure?”

“Anthea,” Mycroft murmured.

“Of course you’re sure. Are you there with Greg?”

He ignored her. “I think we’ve been followed. I want one of our team here to keep an eye on them. The woman is blonde, wearing a pair of jeans and a white blouse. The man has a terrible floral shirt on. You can’t miss them.”

“Understood,” she said.

“Send someone Greg hasn’t seen before.”

“So, you are with Greg.”

“Anthea,” Mycroft warned. “Goodnight.” He stepped into the restaurant, frowning. His only job tonight was to protect Greg. The couple knew they were out together, so all Mycroft could do was prove to them that Greg came under his jurisdiction. To prove he was to come to no harm.

“Everything alright?” Greg asked.

“Yes, of course,” Mycroft said, before reaching out and touching Greg’s arm.

Greg frowned. “You alright?”

“Testing a hypothesis,” Mycroft murmured.

“What hypothesis?”

Mycroft’s eyes flicked to the couple. The man was looking at the wall, to where Mycroft was sure he and Greg were reflected in the glass of the framed picture. They were undoubtedly interested in him. Them.

Mycroft knew, of course, that Greg had been targeted once, but he was overwhelmed by how much he wanted to protect him, not push him away. He refused to be weakened by their association with one another. And he refused to give someone the pleasure of them making Mycroft miserable by him being forced to end it all.

“What’s going on, Mycroft?” Greg whispered.

“We are two people enjoying a quiet birthday dinner,” Mycroft replied, stroking Greg’s wrist with his thumb. “Please, don’t ask me anymore.”

“You’re the one practically holding my hand in public,” Greg muttered.

“I may need to kiss you later too, but I’ll warn you first.”

Greg stared at him. “What the heck is going on?”

“I can’t tell you.”

Greg pulled his arm back. “Like hell you can’t. You can’t use me in some bizarre game.”

“I’m being watched, Greg,” Mycroft replied. “And you are infinitely safer if they believe we are lovers.”

Greg raised his eyebrows. “I’d have thought I’d be safer if they thought we hardly knew each other.”

Mycroft shook his head. “As lovers you are far less likely to betray me, and therefore will be left alone. Please, Greg, don’t ask anymore.”

“Is it to do with…” Greg looked at his arm. “You know. The… the stuff that’s been going on. The car crash.”

Mycroft shook his head. “Please, Greg. Don’t ask me anymore.”

“Fine,” Greg muttered. “But you owe me one hell of a blowjob for going along with this.”

Mycroft tried to smile, and he covered Greg’s hand with his own, trying to calm the situation down. But Greg only glared down at where they touched, chewing his food and looking agitated.

The touch was genuine. Mycroft wanted to tell him that. That he wasn’t holding his hand for show, that he would have done it anyway, in a little while, perhaps after he’d finished his glass of wine and it had given him a little dutch courage.

He felt on edge though. Even the warmth of Greg’s skin couldn’t ease away the trepidation in his chest. He glanced around the restaurant. There was only one entrance at the front, through a set of double doors. Then of course there were back doors in the kitchen, but they were sat too close to the entrance to make that a viable escape route. He checked the other customers.

Accountants, bankers, tourists, teacher, university students, journalist.

“Mycroft, if we’re a couple enjoying a birthday dinner, you’re going to have to at least make it look like you like me,” Greg whispered, pulling him from his thoughts.

Mycroft sighed, entwining their fingers together. He rubbed his thumb against Greg’s, trying everything he could to prove to him it wasn’t all for show. How could it be?

“What have you been doing at work?” Mycroft asked.

Greg took a large swig of wine. “Solving cases,” he muttered.

“Greg,” Mycroft warned.

Greg sighed. “Sorry,” he whispered.

“No, I’m sorry. Let’s just enjoy dinner, shall we?”

Greg nodded. “It’s your birthday.”

“It is.”

They ate their food, discussing Greg’s upcoming birthday, and his plans to have a party for his 40th. The waitress took their starters away.

“God, why am I going to be 40?” Greg asked with a grin.

Mycroft laughed. “I promise when I’m 40 you may tease me mercilessly to make up for it.”

“Can I chain you naked to a bed then too?”

Mycroft opened his mouth, unsure of how to respond. He didn’t know how to explain to Greg that he’d much prefer tying Greg to the bed, and that he wasn’t sure he’d ever be able to enjoy being tied down. Too many terrible memories in Iran for that.

“I doubt you would want to,” Mycroft said. “You will of course be 42 then, and I’m not sure you will still have the stamina of a 20 year old.”

“You bastard,” Greg grinned.

Mycroft enjoyed the first few bites of his main course, mentally reminding himself to visit the restaurant again on some other occasion. Perhaps only with Greg. He looked across at him. His heart began to race, as he realised what he was going to do. It was time enough.

The words were there: _‘I want to tell you that I care for you. Very much. And though I am not yet ready for a committed relationship, and to make it in any way official, I wanted to lay my cards on the table so to speak’._

He glanced at Greg, meeting his brown eyes with his own. “Greg, I-” he started.

“-Is everything okay with your meals?” the waitress interrupted.

Greg nodded. “Yeah, great, cheers.” Greg looked back at him. “Sorry, what were you going to say?”

Mycroft cut up a piece of his seabass, a sinking feeling in his stomach. “Only that I wanted to say thank you for this evening.”

Greg smiled. “You’re welcome.”

Mycroft glanced at the door as two MI5 agents walked in. At least the couple would be kept an eye on. “What particular eras of history did you study at university?” Mycroft asked.

“Modern history really. From about the Napoleon Wars onward.”

Mycroft nodded. “Driving on the right side of the road is associated with Napoleon.”

Greg grinned at him. “Really?”

“Yes. Before Napoleon, horse riders would stay left on the road and the left would always attack in battle first, as they held their swords in their right hand. Napoleon believed this method of war was out-dated, and changed sides to surprise his enemies. Britain, never conquered by Napoleon, still drives on the left.”

Greg laughed and poured the remainder of the wine. “Genius.”

Mycroft smiled. “He was an excellent tactician.”

“It’s a shame you weren’t around at university. I’m sure you’d have helped me pass my exams.”

Mycroft laughed. “I fear you would have been a bad influence on me.”

Greg laughed. “Why’s that?”

“I think you may have tried to keep me in bed rather than attend lectures.”

Greg nodded and shrugged. “Can’t argue with that. What were you like at uni?”

“Much the same as now. I worked long hours.”

“But you had a boyfriend.”

Mycroft nodded. “Yes, Ethan. Although, I would hardly consider him a boyfriend.”

“Why not?”

“I wasn’t interested in a relationship with him.”

“Oh,” Greg murmured.

“You lost your virginity young, I assume?” Mycroft asked as he finished his meal.

“Yeah, 16.”

Mycroft nodded. “I was 19.”

“I was 18 with my first guy,” Greg said. “During Freshers Week.”

Mycroft chuckled. “What was he like?”

“Don’t remember,” Greg grinned. “I don’t think we made it out of the club.”

Mycroft laughed, shaking his head. “You were quite a handful, weren’t you?”

“Yeah, definitely,” Greg nodded. “I was the guy parents warned about, I think.”

“While I’m sure that’s true, I imagine you were very well-liked.”

Greg nodded. “Yeah, I guess so. I was part of quite a big circle of friends back then. Not close friends, just… people I went out with.”

“I have changed my opinion. You would have been a good influence on me,” Mycroft said. “I would have welcomed the distraction.”

Greg smiled at him. “I’ll distract you anytime you want.”

Mycroft smiled back, unable to resist. He reached over, brushing their fingers together. They both gazed at each other.

“Would you like to see the dessert menu?” the waitress asked asked.

Greg looked over at Mycroft. “D’you want to just go and get a drink somewhere in Covent Garden?”

Mycroft nodded. “Certainly. We will have the bill, please.” Greg fished his wallet out of his pocket. “Allow me,” Mycroft said, holding his hand out to him.

“No. It’s your birthday, I’m treating you,” Greg insisted.

“You’ve already bought me this,” Mycroft reminded him, touching the tie pin.

“It looks bloody good too,” Greg grinned. “Seriously. Let me. You can buy me a nice present next month.”

Mycroft nodded. He glanced over at the couple again, who were still glancing at them occasionally. “Greg, when we leave, I would request that we are affectionate with one another.”

Greg looked at him and frowned. “Being spied on still?”

“Almost certainly.”

“How affectionate are we talking?”

“It’s better we don’t plan it and make it look as natural as possible.”

“Being affectionate with you is always bloody natural,” Greg muttered, crossing his arms. “Maybe that’s just me, but I don’t put any thought into it, I just do it.”

Mycroft bit his lip. “And as I have told you before, I enjoy the physicality of our arrangement.”

“I don’t do it for show, Mycroft. And I kind of hoped you wouldn’t either.”

Mycroft swallowed, putting Jim’s £5 down on the table for a tip. He couldn’t meet Greg’s eyes as they put their coats on. It wasn’t for show, for goodness sake, he wanted to say. It was as though Greg didn’t understand him at all. But then, how could he? Mycroft hadn’t been able to tell him anything and… Mycroft held his hand out to him.

Greg took it, but he was still tense as they walked outside. Mycroft stopped once they were by the window, directly in the couple’s line of sight. He glanced at Greg, taking in his frustrated expression. Mycroft tilted his head, pushing the thoughts of the couple, of RL6 away. Greg was his focus - his only focus, he only wished he could tell him that.

“Please don’t do it,” Greg murmured, looking at him. “I deserve better than that, and you know it.”

Mycroft kissed his cheek. “Greg, I am sorry,” he whispered against his skin.

“I feel fucking used, Mycroft.”

“I know.”

A moment passed until Greg pressed his lips to Mycroft’s, but he didn’t have time to return it, as Greg was pulling back, staring at him. “That wasn’t for show,” he said, pulling away completely, until all there was between them was space. Mycroft stared at him, doing his best to mask his expressions, too afraid to give it all away.

But Greg… Greg was doing no such thing. No, below the hurt, the annoyance, was a man who cared about Mycroft. A man who wanted more than just sex, who had spent his birthday with him because he… Mycroft paused. Oh. Oh, well. He’d never imagined that, not in a million years that his own feelings would be reflected back at him through Greg’s eyes. It was too early, far too early, for Mycroft to say the words he’d never once said to anyone else. And he wasn’t ready to commit, not yet.

And yet.

He reached out, stroking Greg’s cheek with the backs of his fingers. He couldn’t say anything at all, but he thought he could show him. And if he could demonstrate his affection, then that should be enough. He stepped forward, kissing him, trying to express it all with his lips.

That it would kill him if Greg were to leave.

They broke the kiss, and Greg was still staring at him, his eyes warm and considering. Mycroft could only watch him. Greg cared, Greg cared for him. It was obvious and wonderful and beautiful.

Frightening.

Greg would be his, if Mycroft allowed it. He wasn’t sure how to tell him that Greg already held Mycroft’s heart in his hands.

“You know, right?” Greg asked, breaking the silence.

Mycroft paused for a moment, letting those words filter through. Greg looked like the weight of the world had just been dumped on his shoulders, and Mycroft knew how he felt. Frightened that all those emotions meant the end of something which meant so much.

Mycroft nodded. “I know.

Greg bit his lip. “So this is over.

“No, Greg. Not unless you want it to be.”

Greg shook his head, and stepped away.

Mycroft swallowed, frowning. “Shall we find somewhere to drink?” he asked.

Greg nodded. “Yeah, let’s do that.” He turned around and Mycroft could only stare at his retreating back.

“Greg,” he called after him, his pulse beginning to race.

Greg looked at him. “What?”

Mycroft just stared. He couldn’t say it. Couldn’t say anything. _‘I care about you’_ , just say those words for goodness sake. And he… just couldn’t find them in his mouth. They lingered there, instead, bouncing around in his head.

“You should know too,” he finally said, and he internally scolded himself for it. For being weak and pathetic.

Greg frowned. “You what?”

Mycroft almost rolled his eyes. “I  _know_ , Greg. And you should know too.”

Greg began to smile, still confused. “So. You knew what I meant.”

“Yes.”

“And you’re… the same. You. The same. As me.”

“Yes.”

“Well, that’s. Enlightening.” Greg laughed. “Enlightening, that’s a word you would use. I’ve been spending too much time with you, Mycroft Holmes.”

Mycroft started to smile, his heart still pounding. Greg smiled too, but he shook his head. “So, wait, wait, wait. Wait.”

Mycroft bit his lip. What came now? He wasn’t sure. A big gesture? Taking his hand? Wrapping an arm around his waist and escorting him to the bar? This was not his area of expertise, and he needed Greg to lead this… he just had no idea…

“Wait, so, we had a sexual arrangement,” Greg said.

Mycroft nodded once. “Yes.”

“And a physical arrangement.”

Mycroft took a deep breath. “Yes.”

“And you know what I… about you.”

“Yes.”

“And you… I should know that it’s… you too.”

“Quite,” Mycroft agreed, still frozen to the spot.

Greg frowned again. “Right. Hang on. Wait a sec.”

And Mycroft would have laughed if he wasn’t so exasperated. Did he really have to say it? And his fears melted away as he strode towards him, taking Greg’s face in his hands and gazing into those eyes he’d come to adore.

“You care about me, and I care about you,” Mycroft told him, his voice as earnest as he could manage, though the words sounded foreign on his tongue. “And none of that in there was for show, and so can we please go and get that drink now?”

Greg began to smile. “So, hang on…”

And Mycroft laughed. “Oh, shut up,” he said, kissing him, even as Greg began to laugh with him. The kiss was intermittent, interspersed with laughter and smiles.

Greg grinned. “You’re ridiculous,” he said as they broke apart.

Mycroft smiled. “Thank you.”

“Are we still being spied on?”

Mycroft glanced into the restaurant. “Yes.”

“Do you think that was realistic enough?” Greg asked.

Mycroft smiled, a genuine one. “Yes, I do.”

Greg smiled and touched his arm. “C’mon. Let’s get a drink.”

Mycroft nodded, beginning to walk with him. “Do you know anywhere?” he asked.

“Nope. I just think we’ll come across somewhere.” Their arms brushed together. “So, you’re serious?” Greg asked.

“I am.”

They glanced at each other, and Mycroft smiled, pressing his hand to the small of his back. He listened to the laughter and chatter from the other restaurants, the sounds of music - both recorded and live - coming from the eateries. He paused at the sound of piano keys.

“What’s up?” Greg asked.

“Can you hear that?” Mycroft asked.

“What the music? Yeah.” Greg looked around. “Oh, I think it’s from that place.”

Mycroft looked over to the bar down the street, with fairy lights around the sign. Mycroft took Greg’s hand in is own and they walked in together. It was dimly lit, with small round tables and stalls and chairs. There was a candle on each table.

Mycroft found a table in the corner. The other people in the bar had their attention turned to the pianist, who was remarkably good.

“You sit, I’ll grab some drinks,” Greg told him, taking his coat off. Mycroft took it from him, putting it down on one of the chairs.

“I’ll have a whiskey,” he said. “I’ll let you choose.”

“You sure?” Greg asked. “I know you have expensive taste.”

Mycroft smiled, taking his own coat off. “Go,” he said. He took a seat as Greg wandered to the bar, leaning against it as he ordered. Mycroft couldn’t take his eyes of him. The warm glow from the candles cast him in a beautiful light, his greying hair so attractive against his strong jaw. He smiled as he read the drinks menu, pursing his lips as he always did when he was concentrating.

Mycroft smiled to himself, leaning back in his seat, his hands resting on the table. He closed his eyes for a moment, filtering out the conversations and focusing on the music instead. He looked up as footsteps drew closer, and smiled as Greg handed him a drink. “Thank you,” he said. He sipped his drink and nodded. “It’s fine.”

Greg grinned, a little relief on his face as he sat across from him. “Oh thank Christ,” he said. Greg’s eyes were fixed on his, watching as though mesmerised. Mycroft raised his eyebrows.“Sorry,” Greg grinned. “I’m still a bit…”

“Bewildered.”

“Yeah.”

Mycroft nodded, pulling his chair round so they could sit closer together. He rested his hand on Greg’s knee, smiling as Greg entwined their fingers together.

It was the single most romantic moment of Mycroft’s life.

“This is not a relationship,” he murmured. “I can’t do promises and flowers and hours spent together in a honeymoon period. I’m finding this hard enough as it is, without the commitment to call you five times a day.”

Greg nodded. “It’s okay. I guessed that already.” He looked at Mycroft and smiled. “And you would never need to call me five times a day.”

Mycroft smiled, resting his cheek against Greg’s hair as the man leaned into him, watching the pianist weave his magic across the room. Mycroft tapped his fingers against Greg’s knee, predicting the notes.

“You know this song?” Greg asked.

Mycroft nodded. “I think so,” he said. “It’s in my head somewhere, but I can’t quite place it. I know the notes.”

“How old were you when you stopped playing?”

“Thirteen.” Mycroft sipped his drink. “Where we lived at the time, there was a grand piano set up in the corner. It was an exquisite old thing, passed down through the family, I believe. I quite enjoyed sitting at it, but I preferred not to play it. Sherlock has the musical talent in the family. I think perhaps he would have been a wonderful musician, had he been given the opportunity.”

“Why didn’t he do it?”

“It’s hardly a reliable profession,” Mycroft murmured. “I think perhaps our parents expected more from him.” He bit his lip, realising how that sounded. “Our parents are very understanding. They only want us to be… ourselves, I suppose. But even so. I think Sherlock thought he had to do rather more than play the violin to impress them.”

“But you didn’t feel like that?”

“I did better at school than Sherlock. Mostly because I actually turned up for my exams. Then I went to Oxford University. Sherlock was following in my footsteps and… I suppose in a way, he didn’t want to have to compete.”

“I understand that.”

Mycroft nodded, stroking Greg’s knee. “It’s too late, I think, for us to have anything resembling a normal brotherly relationship. I like to think as he… God forbid, actually matures, we may find an even footing.”

Greg smiled at him and Mycroft responded with a soft kiss. “How are you?” Mycroft asked softly. “I know you had quite terrible nightmares.”

Greg shrugged. “I’m alright. It’s nothing new, as I guess you gathered. But I’ve been fine lately.”

“Good. I’ve been quite fortunate, not to be plagued with many nightmares. Or dreams, in fact. I’m aware that Sherlock has quite vivid dreams, but I’ve never had the same problem.”

“Yeah. Vivid nightmares in my case. Especially after the accident.”

“How is your wrist? And your cuts?”

“Cuts are scars now. But the wrist is fine. I can do everything I want. Absolute bloody nightmare at the time though.”

“I can only imagine.”

“It was the time off that was the worst. Just sitting in my flat, going a bit stir crazy.”

“I’m sorry I couldn’t do more to help.”

“No, it’s fine. Don’t worry about it. Not your fault.”

“I think perhaps it was,” Mycroft admitted.

Greg shrugged. “It happens. I could have slipped on a piece of ice and done the same injury. Don’t worry about it. I’m fine now.”

“I do though,” Mycroft murmured. “Worry about your safety.”

“You don’t need to. I promise.”

Mycroft nodded and glanced at his pocket watch. He held it out. “Twenty seconds,” he murmured. “Until I’m 37.”

Greg laughed, leaning into him and softly counting down the seconds, his breath tickling Mycroft’s neck. As he reached zero, he turned his head, capturing Mycroft’s lips in a kiss. It lasted a few drawn out seconds, before Greg whispered happy birthday against his mouth. Mycroft called Jim and asked him to bring the car round.

They finished their drinks, and wandered outside. They got into the car, and Mycroft kissed him again. He wrapped his arms around Greg’s neck, searching his mouth with his tongue. He melted into his touch.

He sighed as the car came to a stop, and he still kept chasing kisses.

“See you soon, yeah?” Greg asked.

Mycroft nodded. “Goodnight,” he said reluctantly, kissing him twice more and smiling. “Now go to bed before I kidnap you.”

Greg laughed and got out of the car. He bent over and touched Mycroft’s cheek. “Night.” Mycroft smiled, watching him out of the window as he walked to the front door.

“Good night, Mr Holmes?” Jim asked, innuendo dripping from his voice.

“What do you think?” Mycroft replied, smiling as he gazed out of the window and stroked the tie pin with his thumb.


	26. Expanding Jurisdiction

**November 2006.**

**Location: New York, New York, United States of America.**

The UK’s Defence Secretary looked exhausted as he sat down at the end of the day, exchanging a look with Mycroft. Mycroft could only nod in response as he drank his glass of water.

They’d been dealing with South Korea, who refused to join the world in preventing the trafficking of weapons of mass destruction. Everyone who was at the meetings had come away feeling as though they’d lost.

Mycroft placed his glass down on the coaster and walked out of the meeting room, stepping outside and finding a cigarette in his briefcase. He lit it, glancing down the busy street. He turned as the Defence Secretary stood beside him. “Rubbish,” the man muttered.

Mycroft nodded, holding out the packet of cigarettes and a lighter, which the man gladly took. “Hopeless,” Mycroft said. “I thought we’d solved a lot of problems when I visited earlier this year. Apparently not.”

They exchanged a look and Mycroft sighed, finishing his cigarette in silence. He wandered back into the hotel and took himself to his room where he worked for several hours.

In the morning, he called Greg. The sound of his voice made him smile, and push away any of his concerns about impending nuclear disaster.

“How’s… wherever you are?” Greg asked.

Mycroft smiled as he checked his suit in the mirror. “New York. And it’s fine. Thank you.”

“Busy?” Greg asked.

“Always.”

Greg smiled. “Me too. Sherlock’s being a pain in the arse.”

Mycroft chuckled, collecting his room key and briefcase. “Of course.”

“When are you back?”

“Two days. I’ll come over.”

“Alright. I’m at the Yard, I need to go.”

Mycroft nodded and walked for his door. “I need to go too. Have a good day.”

“And you. Save the world or whatever it is you’re up to.”

Mycroft laughed. “You have such strange ideas about what it is I do.”

“See you in a few days.”

“Of course.” Mycroft hung up and wandered downstairs for his next set of meetings.

Two-and-a-half weeks was long enough. That was an irritating thought in some ways, that after two weeks apart, Mycroft was more keen to see Greg again than he was to do anything else.

Usually after two and a half weeks of dealing with _people_ the last thing he wanted was to put up with someone else. But Greg was different, and he’d realised that long ago.

He knocked on Greg's door two days later, a small smile on the corner of his mouth as he listened to the television through it. And then the sound of Greg’s familiar footsteps. The door opened, and Greg’s face lit up. “Hi,” he said as he stepped aside.

Mycroft smiled at him. “Good evening. How are you?”

“I’m good. You?”

“I’m well.” Mycroft glanced around the room. Although he’d been living there for almost a year, he hadn’t done much to change the place or make it look like home. There were no pictures on the walls, or much in the way of furnishings. Mycroft glanced at the papers scattered over the settee. “You’re busy.”

“Nah, it’s alright. Just working on something Sherlock brought over the other day.”

Mycroft wandered over to it, picking up the invoices and skimming over them. “A case?” he asked.

“Yeah, he took your advice.” Mycroft blinked at him. “I was shocked too,” Greg said with a grin.

Mycroft laughed and put his briefcase down. He turned to Greg, smiling, captivated by him. Greg was smiling as he walked towards him, their lips meeting in a soft kiss. Mycroft drew his arms around him, pulling him closer. Oh, it was as though they’d never been apart. It was as though he’d been counting down the days, just waiting to be reunited with him.

“It’s good to see you,” Greg said against his jaw, pressing kisses against it.

“Yes,” Mycroft agreed, his hands exploring Greg’s back under his t-shirt.

Greg looked at him. “You want to…”

“Lord, yes,” Mycroft agreed, kissing him firmly, allowing Greg to walk him into the back of the settee. He flicked his tongue against Greg’s, tangling his fingers in his shirt. He pulled it up, trying to take it off. Greg broke the kiss, lifting his arms above his head so Mycroft could remove it and drop it down onto the floor.

Greg leaned in towards him again, but Mycroft held him back, his eyes flicking over his his chest, relieved to see it free of bruises. He stroked his hands over his skin, exploring him properly for the first time. He stroked his thumb against Greg’s nipple, Greg sighing in response.

Mycroft looked at him, resolved and ready to take the next step. “Can we go to your bedroom?” Mycroft asked.

Greg nodded. “Sure. Yeah, this way.” He picked his t-shirt up from the floor and took hold of Mycroft’s hand, leading them to his bedroom. Mycroft glanced around at the blue sheets, his laundry in a pile on the floor in the corner. There wasn’t much to the room, besides the bedside cabinet and a wardrobe and chest of drawers.

Mycroft bent over, unfastening his shoes. He pulled them off, placing them together beside the wall. He looked up to see Greg grinning at him. Mycroft frowned. He looked down at himself and spotted the tie pin Greg had given him. Such a silly, sentimental thing that he’d taken to wearing on his trip, but somehow it had felt the right thing to do.

“I told you it was wonderful,” he said.

Greg smiled and grabbed his tie, tugging him closer. “It looks good.”

Their eyes met, joined by uninhibited smiles. They kissed as they made their way towards the bed, Greg making quick work of removing Mycroft’s jacket and waistcoat.

Mycroft kissed him, unable to get enough of the feel of his lips against his. He explored Greg’s mouth, remembering the sweet, sweet sounds he made when he nipped his bottom lip, tugging at it, just a little. Remembering and then reliving Greg’s soft hums when he rubbed his thumb against the side of his neck. His sighs of disappointment when Mycroft broke the kiss. It was delicious, the ways that Greg showed his want.

Mycroft dropped his head, kissing Greg’s throat, smiling with him as he pushed him down on the bed and hovered over him, his arms either side of his head. Mycroft couldn’t resist kissing him again, revelling in the way their mouths seemed to fit.

Greg’s hands were caressing his back… His back.

And here they were, having reached a bed finally. It was almost as though everything since that January night had led to this. That January night where they’d been propped up by alcohol and simmering tension. Now they were only propped up by their own desire, and the knowledge that sex between them was utterly fantastic.

Greg’s lips brushed against both his cheeks, and Mycroft could only gaze down him, swallowing down the lump in his throat.

This wasn’t like sex he’d known before, and they hadn’t even started yet.

Greg kissed both of Mycroft’s wrists and then took his cufflinks off. Smiling, Mycroft sat up and straddled his hips, rocking their hips together once before unfastening his tie. Greg was exquisite, lying there, his chest rising and falling with every deep breath.

He let Greg unfasten his shirt, and dropped his head to Greg’s shoulder. His back. At some point, before, after or during, Greg was going to see those five scars and wonder what happened. Greg slid his shirt off, and Mycroft swallowed, breathing slowly as he waited.

“I had dreams of you like this,” Greg said, his voice soft. He guided Mycroft’s face until they were looking back at each other. “The reality’s better.”

Mycroft smiled, allowing Greg to explore his back with his hands. He stared down at him, cupping his face with one hand, just watching. Greg rubbed his thumbs against Mycroft’s nipples and he shivered at the jolts of pleasure running down his back.

He joined Greg in a kiss, his heart racing. They were so close. Never close enough.

Greg’s hands were everywhere, stroking and rubbing into tense muscles. Mycroft felt pliant and relaxed beneath his touch, and all he could do was meet his kisses with his own, finding new places to press his lips while Greg searched Mycroft’s neck with his mouth. Mycroft was sure Greg didn’t catalogue his body like he did Greg’s. He remembered all those spots that made him gasp and made him tremble. And yet, Greg still found those same spots on Mycroft, licking the hollow of his throat and nipping, just oh so gently, on that spot where his neck met his shoulder.

Mycroft sat up, needing to see him. Their cocks pressed together and he leaned down, flicking his tongue against Greg’s nipple, drawing it into his mouth for a moment.

“S’good,” Greg breathed out. Mycroft flicked his eyes up to meet Greg’s, licking his lips. Never, not once in his life, had he known something like this. That someone could hold his eyes and make him feel so warm inside. “I want to touch you all night,” Greg said, his voice low and husky. “But seriously, will you please just…”

Greg swallowed, his eyes meeting Mycroft’s. They were going to do this.

It had been six long years since Mycroft had last been with a man in that way, and it wasn’t as though he’d forgotten the steps. But Tristan had been pleasant and Mycroft had enjoyed the time spent with him, but he never loved him. And before that there was Oliver Cale, and Don Green and Alexander Crowe, but they were meaningless, sexual encounters, never face-to-face. Before that Jimmy Dine, but for all its passion and wonder, it still hadn’t been like this. And first of all Ethan, the first, filled with teenage passion and fumbling hands.

“In that drawer,” Greg said, nodding to the bedside cabinet.

This. This was Greg Lestrade. The first man Mycroft could admit to himself that he loved. He needed it to be perfect, and though he knew perfection was unachievable, he put that pressure on himself nonetheless.

Mycroft nodded and reached for the drawer. He leaned over, hunting through a random assortment of batteries and a book and lighters and empty cigarette packets until he came across a box of condoms. A box of 12. Mycroft opened it. An un-used box of 12. Greg kissed his neck as Mycroft found the lubricant as Greg tugged his own trousers down.

Greg laughed as he got his foot stuck in his own jeans, rolling his eyes. “Sorry,” he began to mutter, but Mycroft could only kiss him, smiling in amusement. Perhaps imperfection and fumbling was part of what made something spectacular.

Mycroft began to trail kisses down his chest, no particular destination in mind. He had Greg laid out in front of him like a beautiful piece of art. He was all firm muscles and greying hair. His skin was tanned and flushed. Hair trailed down from his belly button down to his black boxers, where his cock was hard and Greg was doing very well not to lift his hips and push for friction.

Mycroft allowed himself to gaze over him. He found a scar on Greg’s stomach, and he kissed it and stroked it.

“Attempted stabbing,” Greg said, and Mycroft knew. He recalled it from reading Greg’s files, all that time ago.

“Eight years old,” Mycroft murmured, licking a line along it.

“About that, yeah.”

There was a chicken pox scar by his belly button, round and white. He nuzzled Greg’s stomach, beginning to kiss along his side.

Greg’s hands tightened on his shoulders, and he pushed Mycroft down onto the bed until he was on his back. Mycroft frowned up at him, their positions reversed before he’d finished exploring.

“My turn,” Greg said with a grin, and he found that spot on Mycroft’s throat again, and he couldn’t find the words to refuse him. He expected he’d never be able to refuse Greg anything, if he were honest.

And Greg’s lips began a journey of their own, his tongue flicking out against his nipples, his breath hot against his skin. Greg looked up at him, their eyes meeting and he stopped as he kissed a scar beneath Mycroft’s right nipple.

“Fencing accident,” Mycroft explained, and when he said accident, he really meant Sherlock’s fault. And it was no accident.

Then there was another scar, below his ribs and Mycroft winced. “Ah,” he said. It was not the worst, not by a long way. In fact, the worst in his mind was the cigarette burn on his side, because it was another one intentionally caused by Sherlock.

But Greg was gazing up at him, interested in the one on his ribs. “Time in Iran,” Mycroft explained. Greg continued to kiss and lick his way along his body. He found the cigarette scar. Mycroft hadn’t expected that. It was small enough that Greg could have bypassed it but… “Sherlock. On heroin.”

“Shit,” Greg muttered, frowning before kissing the scar and Mycroft only sighed and revelled in the new memory Greg was creating for his body. Lower, still, he went, until he found the scar on Mycroft’s stomach, and he had no such qualms or problems with this one. This one was his fault, and his alone.

“Fell off a wall,” he said with an amused smile.

“Tell me you were drunk and there’s a hilarious story to go with it.”

Mycroft chuckled. “No such luck. I was five.”

Greg grinned, his eyes sparkling. “Roll over,” Greg said. “I want to see all of you.”

Roll over. His back. There was no getting around it. He knew Greg would see it sooner or later, though he’d hoped it would have been later rather than sooner. “You won’t like it,” he said.

Greg kissed his hip. “It’s you. I’ll definitely like it.”

Sooner, then, it was. Mycroft rolled over, resting his cheek on his arms. He lay there, half-naked and tense, waiting for Greg’s inevitable questions. He knew the moment Greg saw them, because his body shifted, going still.

“Iran again,” Mycroft murmured before Greg could ask. “10 years ago.” Or 11 years. God, so much time had passed since then, was it really so long?

“You’re never going back to Iran then,” Greg muttered, and his fingers traced along the lines. It had been so long since Mycroft had looked at them, he’d forgotten just how far they stretched across his skin. He’d made peace with it long ago, but he was sure he could still hear the crack of that whip, the taste of salt and metal in his mouth. “Bloody hell.” Greg kissed the back of his neck. “Can you tell me what happened?”

Mycroft closed his eyes. There was no side-stepping the issue. “They were just getting started,” he admitted.

“Started on what?”

“Torture.” He rolled over and cupped Greg’s cheek, holding his eyes. “I’m not going back to Iran.”

“Promise?”

“I promise.” Greg kissed him, a frown between his eyebrows. Mycroft tried to ease it away with gentle caresses. “Lie down, Greg,” Mycroft instructed and Greg did, rolling down onto his back. Mycroft allowed him to unfasten trousers, and Mycroft sat up as he took them off along with his socks.

Mycroft pulled Greg’s boxers down, his lips parted as he was finally able to sweep his eyes over his whole body. Greg shivered. Mycroft held his eyes, so struck by how lucky he was. He was too much, too full of wonderful opportunities. There weren’t enough hours in a lifetime for all the ways he wanted to touch him and kiss him, and then repeat it, over and over and over, because a man like this never got boring. A man like this, full of surprises and warmth, never got old.

Mycroft was sure he’d never seen anything so perfect in his life. Greg reached out, his fingertips pressing against Mycroft’s cheek. He spread his legs, and Mycroft reached for the lubricant. He grabbed a pillow and placed it beneath Greg’s hips to grant him better access. He flicked open the cap of the lube with his thumb, beginning to slick his fingers.

Greg was tense. Mycroft could see it. He was tensing his thighs and his left hand was clenched at his side. His eyes were shut tightly together, and there was a grimace on his face, as though he was expecting pain. Mycroft leaned down and took his now half-hard cock in his mouth instead, watching his reactions intently.

“Oh please,” Greg moaned, his cock hardening against Mycroft’s tongue. His left hand relaxed and gripped the sheets. He touched Mycroft’s shoulder with the other. His body seemed to sink against the mattress and Mycroft took him deeper in his mouth.

He cupped Greg’s balls in his hand before rubbing across his entrance with the tip of his index finger, stroking in one slow circle before beginning to ease his finger inside.

He kept his mouth wrapped tightly around Greg’s cock. He lifted his head, licking along it and Greg seemed to let go of all his tension, and Mycroft pushed his finger inside. They looked at each other.

Greg licked his lips, and Mycroft kept his eyes fixed on his face. He noted every small shift in his body, his breaths changing from forced, steadying breaths to soft sighs. Mycroft moved his finger, just a little, and Greg’s mouth went slack.

“That’s good,” Greg breathed out. Mycroft smiled, his own arousal forgotten as he began to withdraw his finger most of the way out, glancing down as he pushed it back into his tight heat again. “Mycroft, we’ll be here all night if you do everything at that speed,” Greg said.

Mycroft smiled and he leaned down to kiss Greg’s stomach, where precome had dripped onto it. He licked his lips. “Do you mind if we do?” he asked.

“No,” Greg said, grinning.

Mycroft curled his finger and Greg gasped and shuddered beneath him. “We can take all night,” Mycroft said, and there wasn’t anything in the world he wanted more. To spend hours pleasuring Greg, to spend all night there if he could, tasting him and watching him come undone.

“Maybe you can, but I’m going to die if you don’t fuck me soon,” Greg protested.

Mycroft smiled, pressing his middle finger in beside the other. Greg was so relaxed now, accepting the intrusion easily. “You’re always prone to such hyperbole, Greg,” Mycroft said.

“Only bloody you would say hyperbole in bed,” Greg muttered. “Just, hold there a sec.”

Mycroft stilled, and stroked Greg’s arm with his hand. Greg took hold of his hand, entwining their fingers. Mycroft glanced down at where their fingers locked together. It just… fit. Like two sides of the same whole, coming together and connecting.

He looked up at Greg’s face, and he saw a genuine affection in his eyes that he wasn’t expecting to see.

“Go on,” Greg urged, rolling his hips.

Mycroft began to move his fingers, his eyes fixed on Greg’s as he curled them and spread them. He curled his middle finger and Greg groaned, lifting his hips out. “Oh fucking yes,” he muttered. “Oh good God, fuck, do that again.”

Mycroft smiled, repeating the motion and Greg’s grip on his hand tightened. “Greg, you’re going to break my fingers,” Mycroft said, staring down at him in amusement.

Greg laughed. “Take it as a compliment,” he said, rubbing his thumb against Mycroft’s. Mycroft smiled and pressed a third finger against him.

“No, just do it,” Greg told him.

“Are you sure?”

“Hundred percent.”

Mycroft nodded, and slowly slid out his fingers. Greg already had the condom in hand and he ripped the foil open. Mycroft kissed him, deeply and slowly, letting Greg roll it onto his cock. The feel of his hand against his length made him shiver, and his hand shook as he poured more lubricant onto his palm and spread it against his cock.

He held himself up on one arm, wrapping a hand around his length as he pressed against Greg’s entrance. Greg adjusted a little, granting Mycroft more room to move. He pressed forward, gasping as he head of his cock pushed inside. Greg grimaced, and Mycroft froze. He took hold of Greg’s hand.

“Try not to tense,” Mycroft whispered, and kissed over his face, giving him all the time he needed. He watched for every change in Greg’s expression and body, watching over him. He didn’t want to be the one to cause him any sort of pain at all.

Greg began to relax and Mycroft started to press deeper into him, holding his eyes. He breathed hard. It was overwhelming, so tight around his cock. He could hardly breathe. His body was on fire. And then finally he was inside him, their bodies more connected than they could possibly be.

Greg’s hands took hold of Mycroft’s face and he kissed him.

He loved him like nothing else. 

He thrust once into him, squeezing Greg’s fingers. He was lost in him. Somehow he’d become everything that mattered.

He couldn’t tear his eyes away from Greg’s. He couldn’t imagine anything more wonderful. Greg’s moans filled the room, and Mycroft could hardly breathe, he didn’t want to hear anything but that sound ever again.

Mycroft rocked his hips, and Greg just tilted his head back, groaning in pleasure. Mycroft pressed his lips to his neck, kissing and sucking, before returning his gaze to Greg’s. He tried to stay in control, tried to keep it slow, but Greg was pressing down against him, moving with him.

It was too much. Mycroft felt his resolve faltering, and he wrapped his hand around Greg’s cock, stroking it once, twice, until Greg was arching up and squeezing his eyes shut and coming, a deep groan on his lips. Mycroft stared at him, mesmerised. He thrust twice more, and he was gone, his whole body shuddering as he came.

He tried to hold his weight up on one shaky arm, determined not to just collapse onto him. He pulled out, slumping down onto the bed beside him. He took a few deep breaths before sitting up and grabbing the box of tissues from beside the bed. He pulled the condom off and cleaned himself up, handing a tissue to Greg.

After a minute, Greg sat up behind him, kissing his shoulder and neck. “Alright?” Greg asked

“Mm.” Mycroft turned to him, unable to think of anything but him. He smiled as Greg lay down, stretching out his arms and legs. Mycroft lay down beside him, wrapping one arm over his chest. He bathed in the afterglow, sated, his whole body still hot. He opened one eye to see Greg had his own eyes closed, his fingers stroking idly against Mycroft’s arm.

He smiled to himself and sat up, kissing Greg’s chest. “I’m just using the bathroom,” he said. “And I have work to do, I’m afraid.”

“You can do it here,” Greg said. “I’ll grab my paperwork too.”

Mycroft kissed him, glad for it, because he wasn’t sure he was ready to leave yet. “Very well,” he said, pulling himself up. He found Greg’s navy dressing gown hanging up on the cupboard door, and he wrapped it around himself. He walked into Greg’s bathroom, shutting the door behind him.

He used the facilities and washed his hands, sighing to himself in contentment. He walked out, smiling as Greg kissed his cheek before going to the bathroom himself. Mycroft wandered back into Greg’s bedroom, hanging the dressing gown up. He pulled his underwear and trousers back on, and buttoned up his shirt. He put the pillow back in its rightful place and straightened the covers. He threw the tissues away and out of habit, he tidied up Greg’s drawer, so the batteries were all in the same corner and the condom box and lubricant were in easy reach. For next time.

He pushed it shut, amused at Greg’s lackadaisical way of stuffing such a random assortment of objects into that drawer. He wouldn’t be surprised if half the batteries didn’t even work.

He sat down on the settee, taking some papers out of his briefcase. He leaned against the armrest, taking out a wad of papers. He looked up as Greg rejoined him. They shared a quick kiss, and Greg grabbed the invoices he had been working on with Sherlock.

He settled down and Mycroft frowned at him. “Come on,” he said. “Put your feet up here.”

Greg grinned, and put his feet on Mycroft’s lap. Mycroft smiled and rubbed his shin before resting his paperwork against his legs.

The G20 Summit. Mycroft let out a long breath, shaking his head in disapproval. For goodness sake, he thought. This was not his role. He began to skim over the report Anthea had typed up for him. The first pages were dedicated to the key players, complete with pictures and full biographies of their careers. Although useful and thorough, Mycroft only half-concentrated on it. Out of the corner of his eye, he watched as Greg read his own papers, crossing lines out for a while before he seemed to give up on that method and put the pen down on the table.

“Ridiculous,” Mycroft muttered as he read some of the scheduled talks.

“So, what you up to?” Greg asked him.

“Preparing for a G20 summit. I’m supposed to be going in some sort of advisory role, although goodness knows why, it is totally out of my remit. Can you pass me that pen?”

Greg passed it over, and Mycroft began to scribble in the margins. Ordinarily, working with someone beside him was distracting. He liked the silence of his own offices. Anthea was tolerable when they were working on the same project, but that was as far as it went. It was why he was so much better doing what he did now than working in part of a team as he used to do.

But Greg was a welcome distraction. He was a relaxing presence beside him. Mycroft licked his lips. “Would you like a drink?” he asked.

Greg looked at him. “Yeah, that would be great. I think I’ll have a beer. I still have that whiskey you brought over once. Do you want that?”

“I’ll get it,” Mycroft said, getting up. He wandered into the kitchen and opened the cupboards. He found a glass and rolled his eyes as he moved one of the mugs so it was next to the other ones and not on top of a plate. He found a bottle of beer in the fridge, and the whiskey stood next to the cereal boxes. He poured himself a measure, and carried their drinks through.

He placed them on the table and bent down, leaning against the back of the chair as he kissed Greg, enjoying him. Well, he didn’t get that luxury when he worked alone, after all. He smiled and sat back down, Greg putting his legs back onto his lap. Mycroft picked his papers up, sipping his drink.

It felt as though the more he read, the more pages he had left to go. Which certainly wasn’t the case, but he thought the whole thing was ridiculous. He stroked Greg’s knee, lifting his head and glancing around the living room. Greg appeared to be engrossed in his reports. Mycroft smiled to himself, watching him.

With a frown, he tried to read his own papers again. “This is utterly ridiculous,” he finally muttered, agitated. “Who in their right mind thought this fell under my jurisdiction?” He dropped the papers onto the table, glaring at them and silently wishing they’d just vanish into thin air.

“Your jurisdiction is always expanding,” Greg said.

“Well, I wish it wouldn’t. As though I have nothing better to do than travel to Australia to watch people discuss economies, pretending any of them have the power to do anything about it.”

Greg shook his head. “Your insights into the way the world is governed worry me.”

Mycroft turned to him. “True power doesn’t lie in conversation. It lies in action and making the correct decision at the right time. A skill most politicians are sadly lacking.”

“I think you’re pretty good at conversation and action. And at the same time.”

Mycroft smiled, settling against the settee. “I couldn’t possibly understand what you are referring to.”

“Sure, you couldn’t.”

Mycroft watched him for a moment, lost in how gorgeous he was, before leaning over and kissing him. He took Greg’s papers from his hands and let them drop to the floor. He wanted him again. He just couldn’t get enough.

“Supposed to be working,” Greg said as they broke the kiss.

Mycroft pursed his lips. “But it’s tedious.” He nipped Greg’s bottom lip and he savoured the way he shuddered. Learning Greg’s body was proving to be a truly delightful experience. He was so responsive. “And I know it all. I could tell you. You said you believed I was ‘pretty good’ at conversation and action.”

He pressed his hand against Greg’s crotch, finding him half hard already. He kissed Greg’s jaw and held his arm down, watching as Greg’s eyes darkened. He liked surrendering, Mycroft thought. He liked being led.

“The G20 was formed in 1999, made up of 20 finance ministers and central bank governors,” Mycroft explained, squeezing Greg’s cock through his pyjama trousers. Greg gasped, his mouth forming a bewildered grin. Mycroft peppered his jaw and face with kisses.

“Collectively, the G20 economies account for 85 per cent of the gross world product, 80 per cent of world trade and two-thirds of the world’s population.” He bit Greg’s neck, and Greg was like liquid under his body, pliant and willing. “This year, they will be discussing the outlook of the global economy, the impact of demographic change on global financial markets and further reform of the International Monetary Fund and the World Bank.”

Mycroft watched him, smiling. “And the aim is to take advantage of the present strength in the global economy to get policy settings right.”

He studied Greg’s flushed face before kissing down his throat. He licked his lips as he went, staring at the outline of Greg’s hard cock. “And markets between two or more economies are characterised by clear signals.” Mycroft rubbed his cheek against his length. “Open trade…” He pulled his trousers down, and then breathed against his length through Greg’s boxers. “Market transparency.” Greg was practically writhing now and Mycroft held him down. “Good governance,” he said, and Greg’s cock twitched at that. “And effective competition.”

Greg groaned and laughed and Mycroft was so far gone in explaining, that he wasn’t sure he could back out now. “And how do we do that?” Mycroft asked, pulling Greg’s boxers down. “We must allocate our most productive resources to their most highly-valued uses.” And then he lowered his head, licking along his length.

“Oh God,” Greg moaned, above him, his fingers coming to tangle in Mycroft’s hair.

Mycroft smirked up at him. “On the contrary, Greg. Economics, not religion.” He wrapped his lips around Greg’s cock, taking as much as he could until the head hit the back of his mouth. He hummed around him, knowing all the ways to set him on fire.

“Fuck,” Greg said. “God, your mouth.”

Mycroft could only smile around him and lift his head. “As I said. We must allocate our most productive resources to their most highly-valued uses. And this is a demonstration of such economic questions those incompetent ministers will be attempting to resolve in Australia.”

He took him deep into his mouth again, watching as Greg’s self-control melted away, until Mycroft’s mouth was the only thing keeping him routed to the earth. He began to bob his head, holding Greg’s hips down as he began to suck him, root to tip, flicking his tongue against him. He pressed his finger behind his balls, and he could have smiled as Greg cursed.

Mycroft lifted his head, letting Greg’s cock fall from his mouth.

“Wait, what?” Greg breathed, staring at him. “Why have you stopped?”

“Economic policies are not so easily resolved,” Mycroft murmured. “Sometimes during those conversations, the ministers believe they are close to a resolution, when someone suddenly puts an amendment on the table.”

“Amendment?” Greg laughed. “What’s the amendment?”

“There are other resources,” Mycroft said, as he wrapped his hand around Greg’s prick and squeezed. “There are other uses.”

He lifted Greg’s leg. He’d not done this in more than 10 years, and in his mind, it was the most intimate thing in the world. He pressed his tongue against Greg’s hole, and from above him, Greg became breathless and wordless all at once. Mycroft knew he was taking him apart, flicking his tongue against him and working him over.

Oh he knew. He knew from his own experiences, from the one and only time Jimmy had done it to him, just how it felt. And from Greg’s reactions, he knew he was doing it right. Mycroft stroked Greg’s cock in time, flicking his tongue against his hole until Greg was all but begging above him. And Mycroft gave him everything until Greg came over his hand, a muddle of syllables and groans leaving his mouth.

Mycroft sealed it with a kiss, easing him through his orgasm until Greg was a sated mess below him, his cheeks flushed, his lips slack.

“So, who said the G20 was boring ‘ey?” Greg asked, smiling. “You’re unbelievable.” Mycroft smiled and sat up, handing the papers back to Greg. “Don’t you want…”

“I’ve distracted us both enough,” Mycroft said, kissing Greg’s cheek.

He sat back in his seat, watching as Greg cleaned himself up and returned to his work, his legs taking their place on Mycroft’s lap. Mycroft, for his part, spent more time watching Greg out of the corner of his eye than he did focusing on his reading. It was a good job they didn’t work together, because he was so very distracting. Time went by so quickly. Too quickly. Mycroft began to write out some more notes. He frowned as Greg moved his legs, and Mycroft lifted his papers, watching him. Greg came to rest against his side.

Mycroft lifted his arm, wrapping it around his shoulders and pulling him closer. He put the pen down and read the final few paragraphs before putting his work down, turning his head and kissing the top of Greg’s head as Greg kissed his neck.

“S’late,” Greg said.

Mycroft turned to look at him. “Mm.” He met Greg in a kiss. “I should go in a moment.”

“You could stay.”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

Greg stayed close and Mycroft kept him there. He wanted to stay. Waking up with Greg would be a wonderful treat. But it wasn’t time, not yet. He wasn’t ready to take ownership of Greg’s heart, though Greg had held his own for a while now. Soon.

Mycroft wrapped his arms around him, closing his eyes. Soon, he would stay, or Greg would stay with him. Perhaps when the Rickard Luck threat was neutralised, and Greg was no longer in danger. Then, perhaps, he could try. They could try.

“Greg?” Mycroft asked.

“Mm?”

“I am moving in a moment.”

“Okay.”

Mycroft nodded, resolved. “I will move. In a moment.”

“I believe you,” Greg replied.

Mycroft sighed, keeping Greg locked in his arms. Greg took hold of his hand, linking their fingers for the second time that night. “Greg?”

“Mm?”

“I find myself unable to move.”

Greg laughed. “Stay.”

“I can’t.”

“Why not?”

Mycroft turned to him. “It’s not that I don’t want to.”

Greg nodded. “I know. It’s okay, I get it.”

“I will,” he whispered, promising. “Another day.”

Greg kissed him. “It’s alright. Honest. I know.”

Mycroft smiled and let go of Greg’s hand. He got up and put his clothes on, putting his papers back into his briefcase.

“Call me sometime, yeah?” Greg asked.

Mycroft smiled and kissed him, long and slowly, savouring it. “I will.”

“Tonight’s been amazing.”

“Yes. I am looking forward to the repeat.”

Greg grinned. They walked to the door together, Greg presenting him with another kiss. “See you soon, right?”

Mycroft nodded. “Perhaps your birthday.”

Greg smiled and kissed his cheek. “That would be good.”

Mycroft smiled. “Goodnight,” he said.

“Night.”

Mycroft walked out, wandering down the corridor as he heard the door close. He looked behind him, to the line of light underneath it. He closed his eyes for a moment before walking out of the building. 


	27. Not A Victory March

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry updates have been a little sporadic lately - I've been struggling with a a couple of chapters. But anyway, I'm pushing through it! :D

**November 2006.**

**Location: Coeur de Lion Offices, Mayfair, London.**

The present was lying unwrapped on the leather settee in his office. No one had asked about it - they respected Mycroft too much for that - but the few people who had been in his room had shot a surprised look in its direction.

Mycroft closed his laptop down and collected the black wrapping paper from beneath his desk, moving his books and papers aside so he could unroll it. He walked to the other side of the room, collecting the signed and framed Arsenal Football Club picture and putting it on top of the paper. It had just gone 10pm, and Mycroft thought it might be the right time to give the gift to Greg, even if it meant socialising with his colleagues.

There was a knock on the door. “Come in,” Mycroft called out, measuring out the wrapping paper. Anthea walked in, flanked by Hugh Seagroves. He was wearing a suit, but it did looked as though it had been ironed by someone who wasn’t very used to doing it. “What is it?” Mycroft asked them both.

“Intel,” Hugh said with a tired voice. “One of our stations in Basra has stopped communicating with us.”

Mycroft frowned. “How long ago?”

“An hour ago. There’s a rumour it’s under attack but… we can’t confirm that.”

“Right,” Mycroft muttered. “Anthea, stay here and monitor everything going on in this office. Bring Maisie Facer and Stewart Trease back in. Stewart used to be posted in Basra, he’ll know the area. I want them using their sources to find out everything they can. Hugh, I’ll go with you to the SIS Building.”

“Yes, sir,” Anthea said.

Mycroft frowned and glanced down at his desk. “And could you wrap that gift for me, when you get a moment?”

Anthea nodded and Mycroft collected his laptop and led Hugh out of his office. They took separate cars to the SIS Building and Mycroft took the stairs up to Hugh’s office, meeting him there. Hugh had dark lines under his eyes as he handed him the papers. “This is all we’ve got,” he said.

Mycroft frowned and looked over them. “Is there a codeword they send out when they’ve been infiltrated?”

“A code, yes. They didn’t send it.”

“What are they doing there?”

“They’ve been there since before the war, monitoring Iraq’s system of Government and connections with terrorists.”

“Right,” Mycroft muttered. “How many agents are based there?”

“Twelve.”

“And has anyone tried to make contact?”

“What kind of idiots do you take us for?” Hugh asked with a wry smile. 

Mycroft nodded. “Apologies.” He skimmed his eyes over the jumble of messages. “Is there anywhere I can work?” he finally asked.

Hugh nodded. “Stay in here.”

Mycroft set his laptop up at Hugh’s desk, checking the time. Greg’s birthday party would probably have been in full swing by now. He sighed, monitoring the intelligence being gathered throughout the evening.

He stood up and walked into the hub of the operation for a while, standing and watching as agents worked. He watched Hugh act as a go-between, and observing the team approach reminded him why he preferred his way of working now. When he could be in control of it all rather than having to be part of a group of others, even if the others were vital nonetheless.

Hugh glanced at him. “No contact for three hours,” he muttered.

“Is that unusual?”

Hugh shrugged. “I don’t know anymore. This particular Basra station hasn’t exactly been what we’ve been focusing on lately. We’ve been opening new stations and other Basra bases have been far more useful in the past few years.”

Mycroft frowned. “I’m wondering if there’s another way to make contact.” He chewed his lip. “Have you experienced any power blackouts in that area?”

“Not that I’m aware…” Hugh rubbed his face, wandering around the room. Mycroft watched him with interest for a moment, before heading back to Hugh’s office. He checked the time again, sighing. Just as he was about to reach for his phone to text Greg to tell he may not make it, Anthea called him.

“Any news?” Mycroft asked her.

“Stewart’s heard something about explosions in the area. We’re getting unconfirmed reports from the MOD.”

“Right,” Mycroft muttered, frowning. Hugh walked in and Mycroft knew he’d heard the same reports. “I need you to send it to-”

“-Already done,” Anthea said.

Mycroft smiled and turned to his laptop. “Thank you,” he replied, as he opened the message. “Anything else?”

“No.”

“Thank you.” Mycroft hung up the phone. “Bombs,” he said, looking up at Hugh.

Hugh nodded. “Yes. It was in a populated area. It’s possible it wasn’t a target but…”

“It was in the wrong place.”

Hugh nodded. “Twelve people worked there,” he murmured tiredly.

“We don’t know yet, that anyone’s dead,” Mycroft said.

Hugh shook his head. “I don’t know if I can keep doing this,” he muttered, frowning.

Mycroft blinked at him. “Shut the door,” he said. Hugh nodded and did as he was told before sinking into one of the chairs, rubbing his eyes. Mycroft stared at him. “Your wife’s left you,” he murmured, suddenly realising what was different about him.

Hugh nodded. “She found out about the affairs.”

Mycroft frowned. “We can’t bring our personal lives into the office. You have to separate-”

“-Why is that so sodding easy for you?” Hugh snapped at him. “Is it because you’re a heartless bastard, or just because nobody wants you?”

Mycroft raised his eyebrows. “Don’t blame me for your situation this evening,” he replied evenly. “I’m doing all that I can to help.”

Hugh nodded and dropped his head into his hands. “I’ve lost people before, Mycroft,” he said. “I don’t even know the names of the 12 people in that base.”

“It’s the nature of our job,” Mycroft replied, not feeling anything for them at all. They both looked up as there was a knock on the door. Hugh called them in, and a young woman stood in the door, shaking her head.

“Confirmed by the Ministry of Defence…” she said. “There were a series of explosions, the whole area is decimated. The army was there yesterday but they left… they think that they were the targets.”

Mycroft nodded. “My condolences,” he murmured. He stood up, waiting for her to leave. “Hugh,” he said when she went. “You have to pull yourself together.”

Hugh glanced up at him. “You act like it’s easy. You’re just… made of stone.”

Mycroft frowned and collected his laptop. “Take a few weeks off and spend some time with your wife. Then I want you to go back to work and increase your intelligence-gathering facilities in Basra. We missed something. We should have known about the likelihood of the attack. We didn’t. Plug the hole.”

“Don’t start criticising my operation.”

Mycroft raised his eyebrows. “Then build a better operation,” he said, before turning and walking out of the office. He took a car back to the Coeur de Lion, where Stewart was sat at his computer staring into space.

“Did you know them?” Mycroft asked him, stopping beside his desk.

Stewart nodded. “Two of them.”

“I’m sorry for your loss,” Mycroft said, though the words felt robotic on his lips.

Stewart glanced up at him. “Can I go home, sir?” he asked.

“Yes. Yes, go home. I’ll see you tomorrow.” Mycroft found Anthea in his office still, filing his papers away.

She forced a smile at him. “Difficult night,” she said, her whole posture tense.

Mycroft nodded. He checked the time, not knowing what to say to her. “Half past one,” he muttered. “Damn.”

Anthea handed the gift to him. “He may still be awake.”

“I doubt it,” Mycroft replied. “Goodnight, Anthea.” He walked out and slid into his car. He put the gift down on the chair and frowned at it. “Can we try Petty France, please?” he asked Malcolm. “Greg may be fast asleep but…”

“Of course, sir,” Malcolm said. Mycroft sighed, his shoulders slumping. God, what an evening.

He collected the gift and walked into Greg’s building. There was still a line of light underneath Greg’s door. Mycroft frowned to himself and knocked. Greg was a picture when he opened the door, beaming a big white smile, leaning against the door frame, his eyes a little hazy from the alcohol he’d consumed. “Hello there, stranger,” Greg said, slurring a little.

Mycroft smiled. “I didn’t think you would still be awake.” He walked in and took his coat off.

“I was just going to bed. What you doing here?”

“I wanted to say happy birthday.” Mycroft handed him the present.

“You didn’t need to do this,” Greg said, taking a seat on the settee. Mycroft watched him, listening to the music coming from Greg’s CD player. A quick glance at the open case said the singer was Jeff Buckley, although Mycroft wasn’t familiar with who that was. Greg pulled the wrapping off. “Is this…”

“It’s real,” Mycroft confirmed, smiling as he sat down beside him. Greg had such a bare flat, with no character at all. Mycroft had hoped the picture would inject some personality into his furnishings. He hoped Greg would perhaps feel a bit more like he was at home.

“Thank you,” Greg whispered. “This is amazing. Too much. But amazing.”

Their lips met in a soft kiss, and Mycroft took peace from the gesture. “Happy birthday,” he whispered. He put the picture down and they gazed at each other. Greg looked tired, the effects of his alcohol beginning to wear off a little. Greg stood up, holding his hand out. Mycroft frowned at him.

“C’mon,” Greg said, nodding his head. Mycroft took his hand, allowing Greg to help pull him up from the sofa. Tiredness was beginning to creep into his own bones now. But Greg led him to the centre of the room, winding his arms around Mycroft’s neck.

Mycroft placed his hands on his hips, staring at him. “Greg, what are you doing?”

Greg grinned. “It’s my birthday. And this is Jeff Buckley playing. This is my favourite song. And you’re dancing with me.”

Mycroft watched him for a moment before wrapping his arms around Greg’s waist. Greg kissed him and dropped his head onto Mycroft’s shoulder. Mycroft chuckled, finding drunk Greg was more endearing than he could have ever imagined. He began to listen to the song for the first time, resting his cheek against Greg’s head, stroking his back.

They swayed slowly together, Mycroft keeping his eyes open as he pressed his lips together. He was sure he could feel every beat of Greg’s heart. Every small movement of his hips, his legs, his arms, guided Mycroft with him into the dance.

There was something raw about the singer’s voice in his first line of the song. There was pain there, rich and pure and unrestrained. Mycroft swallowed, emotion sweeping him up in an instant.

“I didn’t think you were going to come,” Greg said.

“I was never going to miss it,” Mycroft whispered, biting down hard on his bottom lip.

“I’m not 39 anymore,” Greg said.

“Yes, that’s correct.”

“Probably,” Greg said.

Mycroft’s chest clenched. “You don’t know your real birthday.”

“It’s the best guess,” Greg said. Mycroft kissed his hair. Oh Greg, he thought. Greg. He didn’t know his own parents, didn’t even know his own date of birth, or what he’d been called by his parents. He couldn’t make his flat feel like home, and he was as alone as Mycroft had been.

Mycroft took a long breath, stroking his lower back. He closed his eyes, listening to the notes of the guitar, one after the other. He held Greg close to him, overawed by how much he loved him. Hallelujah, hallelujah, hallelujah. He bit down hard on his bottom lip, and he felt it for the first time since Jimmy Dine had died. That feeling of loss. Of being left alone, of standing by himself with no who would catch him when he fell.

Always so strong, always full of ice and stone. He couldn’t even feel the pain of 12 people losing their lives anymore. Not even 12 of his own. His eyes stung and he held Greg closer, pressing his lips into his hair.

He took a long breath in through his nose, so painfully aware of how much Greg was clinging to him too.

Mycroft pulled back, holding one hand on Greg’s hip and reaching up to touch Greg’s jaw, and his mouth. I love you. The words were there, on the tip of his tongue, making his heart ache with the pain of it all. Those words were killing him, eating up from the inside.

Greg was watching him with his beautiful brown eyes, sharing breaths with him, sharing his warmth and his affections.

“What’s up?” Greg asked. Mycroft shook his head, the room beginning to swirl as Greg kissed him. “It’s alright,” Greg said. “Whatever it is, it’s-”

“-Inconvenient,” Mycroft managed to say, unable to meet his eyes.

“What is? Oh. You and me. Feelings. Unnecessary and pointless, right?” Greg sighed and pulled Mycroft closer, holding him. “Just shut it off, Mycroft. Whatever bit of your ridiculous brain is freaking out right now, just shut it down.”

Mycroft swallowed. “I can’t.”

“Yes you can. Your head isn’t like other people’s. You don’t want to think it then just shut it off. Not your feelings. Just switch off the bit which says feelings are bad for you.”

Mycroft nuzzled his neck, burying his face in it. “It is never so simple.”

“I’m making it simple. What the hell happened to make you think you weren’t allowed to be happy?” Mycroft clenched his teeth and curled his fingers in Greg’s shirt. “Come to bed with me,” Greg said, pulling back to look at him.

“I can’t-”

“Can’t stay, I know. That’s fine.” Greg took his hand. “But you like getting me naked, right?”

Mycroft nodded. “Yes.”

“Come to bed with me. For an hour. Or less, depending on whether I’m able to get it up with the amount of alcohol I’ve had.”

Mycroft managed a laugh and let Greg lead him to his bedroom. Mycroft sat down on the edge of it, watching as Greg began to undo his shoes. Mycroft could only reach out to stroke his hair, wishing he could find the strength to express what he felt about him. He couldn’t, and that hurt too, all in itself.

“Tired,” Greg muttered, resting his head against Mycroft’s leg.

“Come up here,” Mycroft said, holding a hand out. Greg took it, and curled up on the bed. Mycroft laughed, turning to him and beginning to unfasten his shirt.

Greg groaned. “Why was I fine five minutes ago and now…”

“It was the Sambuca.”

Mycroft helped him out of his shirt and then his trousers before pulling the covers over him, tucking him in, watching him with a soft smile.

“You’re pretty gorgeous,” Greg said.

Mycroft sat down beside him and stroked his forehead. “Go to sleep, Greg.”

“But y’gonna go.”

Mycroft nodded. “I’m sorry.”

“I like you,” Greg mumbled.

“I know.”

“I broke your rules. Your feeling rules.”

“As did I,” Mycroft said softly as he bent down to kiss his forehead. He turned the light off. “Go to sleep.”

“Mycroft?”

“Mm?”

“I really like you.”

Mycroft closed his eyes. “It’s mutual,” he whispered. He turned the CD player off and wandered to Greg’s kitchen. He tidied a few things away and carried a glass of water back through to the bedroom. Greg was half asleep, but Mycroft kissed his lips. “I will call you. Goodnight.”

Greg hummed and Mycroft quietly closed the door. He collected his coat and turned the lights out before leaving. The song was still reverberating around his head, even when he curled up under the covers himself. He wrapped his arms over his chest and cursed himself for being so afraid.

He could have everything. Instead, he held him at arm’s length, rather than accepting the most wonderful gift in the world.

* * *

He called Greg in the afternoon, having spent the morning at work, finding out more about what had happened the night before. He invited Greg for dinner, hoping he could make up for arriving so late at his birthday party.

After leaving work, he went to the shops, where he bought a Jeff Buckley CD from HMV. It was pouring with rain when Mycroft prepared them a lasagna, listening to the album, finding he rather liked it. As the time approached for Greg to arrive, Mycroft turned the music off and hid the CD case in his desk drawer.

He turned the fire on and began to pour them each a drink, looking up when Greg came in, his coat damp, specks of rainwater on his face.

“Alright?” Greg grinned.

Oh, and his smile... Mycroft walked over to him and kissed him as though his life depended on it. As though they’d been apart for months and not a matter of hours. He had no control over his limbs or his head, he just had to kiss him and push his tongue into his mouth. He had too have him, to touch him everywhere. To spread him out naked beneath him and to touch, lick, kiss, nibble every inch of his wondrous body.

There was fire in every kiss as they walked backwards, back into the bookcase. Greg’s hands were everywhere, and Mycroft was already hard, pressing up against him, desperate for friction.

Books tumbled to the floor, but Mycroft didn’t care as he kissed Greg’s neck, before their lips met again. Mycroft pulled at Greg’s t-shirt and Greg yanked it off. There were books lying upside down the floor, the pages creasing. Mycroft didn’t care.

Greg’s lips were parted and he was breathing hard. They renewed the frenetic kiss, Mycroft tangling his fingers in Greg’s soft hair. He gave himself half a second to take stock before beginning to tug Greg back towards the spare room, the closest bedroom available. Greg’s mouth had latched onto his neck, and Mycroft felt his knees shake.

He unfastened Greg’s jeans and pushed him up against the wall. They were both breathing hard, consumed by lust. Greg finished unbuttoning Mycroft’s shirt and began to kiss his way down Mycroft’s chest. Mycroft tilted his head back, gasping and gripping his hair more firmly.

He leaned to the side, finally opening the door. Greg tugged him in and pulled his jeans off, lying down on the bed. Mycroft stopped in his tracks, mesmerised.

Greg caught his eyes, grinning and shaking his head.“You are just. I can’t even describe it. You’re just too good to be real.”

Mycroft felt his cheeks heat up, and he walked over to the bed, allowing Greg to unfasten his belt. He stared down at him as Greg pushed his trousers down, letting them pool around his ankles. Mycroft stepped out of them and pushed him down onto the bed, and they both laughed as Mycroft straddled him and kissed him. His heart was racing, his cock harder than he thought possible. Their hips rocked together, and Greg groaned into Mycroft’s mouth.

It took all of Mycroft’s self-control to not come like some desperate teenager, rutting against his partner for the first time. Instead he took a deep breath and licked into Greg’s mouth. He was desperate for him, needing to be inside him again more than anything in the world.

“I want you,” Mycroft told him, squeezing Greg’s cock through his underwear, stroking a few times.

Greg bit Mycroft’s bottom lip, and Mycroft shuddered. “Yeah, take it,” Greg breathed out. “Anything, have it.”

Anything. Oh, there were too many things, but Mycroft only wanted to bring him pleasure in what ever way he could. He wanted to devour him, have him, make it so he would never again want or need anyone else.

“Lie down on your front,” Mycroft said. “And take the last of your clothes off.”

“Oh God,” Greg whispered. He sat up onto his knees, his back to Mycroft, and pulled his boxers down, slowly, so slowly. Mycroft could only stare at him. At the back of his neck, down his spine and the way his muscles on his back moved. Down to his backside, delectable and squeezable. Greg threw his boxers onto the floor and lay down on his front.

Mycroft straddled his hips, bending down to kiss the back of his neck. All his. All laid out for him. “You’re not to touch yourself,” he murmured. “You’re not to move a muscle without my say so.”

From beneath him, Greg’s body shook, and he tangled his fingers in the sheet. “Yeah,” he said. “Yeah, I… Oh God, Mycroft.”

Mycroft inhaled, that smell of cocoa and cedar once again overpowering his senses. He began to kiss down his back, kissing every vertebrae, rubbing his nose against Greg’s hot skin. He flicked out to lick it, tasting shower gel.

There wasn’t an inch of his body Mycroft didn’t like. Everything about him was captivating, from his toes, curling and uncurling, up to his head, buried in the pillows.

Mycroft’s chest clenched. He had him, here, trusting and open and beautiful. No man in the world deserved to be so fortunate, to have Greg Lestrade’s trust.

“Move your legs apart, Greg,” Mycroft said.

Greg did, adjusting himself against the sheets. Mycroft stroked his backside, squeezing and wondering why he hadn’t spent much time admiring this part of his body yet. He kissed over his back, bringing his hands down so his fingers brushed against the inside of Greg’s thighs.

Greg shook. “Oh, Christ, yes, there,” Greg moaned. His whole body was trembling, full of anticipation, but he was being so very, very good at keeping still. Mycroft explored his sensitive thighs with his fingertips and nails. He began to kiss down his legs, nuzzling as he went. He had strong, muscular legs from all those years of football. Greg was breathing heavily beneath him, a line of sweat glistening between his shoulder blades.

Mycroft stared down at him. He took hold of Greg’s arse, spreading his cheeks apart until he was spread open and exposed. He dropped his head and licked between them.

“Oh holy…” Greg gasped. “Oh God, oh, God, are you… fucking… okay. Okay.”

Mycroft would have laughed if he weren’t so focused. He swept his tongue over the tight muscle, feeling it twitch against him. He squeezed Greg’s buttocks, flicking his tongue against his hole before changing to one long lick. Greg was swearing and panting beneath him.

Mycroft thought he looked absolutely strung-out as he pushed up against his tongue, writhing and moaning and gasping. He seemed to have taken leave of all of his senses, and the sight made Mycroft’s cock twitch in his boxers.

“Mycroft,” he was crying out. “Mycroft. Fuck. Please. Please, please.” Mycroft just continued to work him over with his tongue, flattening it against him. “Just, oh. Oh, I can’t, I can’t, please.”

Mycroft lifted his head, stroking down his thighs, trying to soothe him. He reached for the drawer and found a bottle of lubricant and a condom.

“Yeah, that’s… perfect, yeah,” Greg breathed out. Mycroft studied him for a moment. He wanted to take him and have him, over and over and over.

He stroked down his back. “Onto your hands and knees, Greg.”

He marvelled as Greg did as he was told, his body shaking as he held himself up, presenting himself to Mycroft, offering everything he had from that vulnerable position.

“You always know,” Greg whispered. “You just… you just get it, you just…”

Mycroft kissed the small of his back, opening the bottle of lube. “Shh, it’s okay,” he soothed, before spreading the lubricant over his fingers. He pressed his index finger against him, and he studied him closely as he eased his finger in.

He swallowed. Oh how on earth had he got this fortunate? What on earth had he done so right that he deserved this? “You’re so perfect,” he said softly.

“More, please,” Greg urged.

Mycroft smiled to himself. “Patience, Greg.” He curled his finger, finding Greg’s prostate far more easily than he had the first time.

Greg was holding himself up on shaky arms, panting. “I can’t. Please.”

“Patience.” Mycroft began to move his finger, unable to tear his eyes away as he watched it disappear into Greg’s body, with Greg so relaxed and pleading for more, for him.

“I don’t know how you’re so bloody patient,” Greg was saying. “You’re just… please, Mycroft, please.”

Mycroft took a long breath himself, not sure how he was able to have so much restraint. He wanted to put his hands on his hips and thrust into him and fuck him until they were both lost. But no. Not this time. He wanted Greg to feel so wanted, so desired. He wanted Greg to feel weightless, boneless.

He pressed another finger in, curling them. Greg almost collapsed down onto the bed, but Mycroft held him up.

“I need you so much,” Greg said, letting out a breathy groan. “Mycroft.”

Mycroft bit his bottom lip, closing his eyes for a moment as he continued to move his fingers. Greg accepted it all so easily, and he rocked back against them. Mycroft stroked his own cock, just once, and it gave him a small amount of relief.

Eventually, he pulled his fingers out and reached for the condom. He gasped as he rolled it on, spreading lube liberally over it. He took hold of Greg’s hip, lining up against him.

“Please,” Greg said, and Mycroft could only pinch his eyes closed as he began to press inside him. The pleasure was intense, setting every nerve alight. He could feel Greg everywhere, around him, inside him, consuming him. His heart was breaking with the intimacy of it all. Greg was all he wanted in the world.

Mycroft buried his cock inside him and opened his eyes, staring down at where their bodies met. “You are beautiful,” he whispered, and thrust hard inside him. Greg moaned and Mycroft drove into him three times before stopping and stilling, just rolling his hips, his lips slack, his thighs tense. He was trembling, he realised.

He could only watch his cock disappear inside him, but no, more, he needed so much more, to show Greg he loved him, even if the words weren’t there, even if the words were impossible and causing him so much anguish.

He pulled out of him, holding onto the condom. “On your back,” he said.

Greg collapsed onto the bed before rolling over, his face flushed and utterly debauched. His hair was mussed, his eyes dazed. Greg pulled him down for a kiss, wrapping his arms around him. Mycroft pushed back inside, and he kissed every part of his mouth, and he knew what he was doing as he rocked his hips. He was making love for the very first time, connecting them, joining them. So pure, so beautiful.

How could anything be bad in the world when there was so much good like this? When there was Greg, moving with him, allowing Mycroft into his body, allowing Mycroft inside him.

Their bodies fit together, perfectly in time. Mycroft reached down to wrap his hand around Greg’s cock and the man came just a second later, letting out a deep groan of pleasure. Mycroft thrust once more, and he couldn’t control anything at all, he just let go, lost in him.

Greg was kissing all over his face, and Mycroft couldn’t take it anymore. He collapsed down onto him, spent. Greg held him close, and Mycroft closed his eyes, resting his cheek on Greg’s chest. His cock slid from Greg’s body, but he couldn’t bring himself to move away, not yet. He listened to Greg’s heart, as it began to slow back down to his resting pace.

His whole body was slack and rested. He didn’t think he’d ever been so… content. Happy. Rested. He had Greg with him, and he would do anything and everything for him. He smiled a little to himself, brushing his fingers against Greg’s arm.

So there it was, he supposed. There couldn’t be an argument about it. They were together, and it was wonderful and it was perfect.

Greg hummed and Mycroft smiled a little more. “Mm,” he agreed, unable to say anything eloquent. How could he possibly find the words to describe it, after all? The whole of the English language - every language, in fact - felt superfluous. None of it could summarise what this meant.

“Mm. Yeah,” Greg said.

“Quite.”

“Amazing.”

“Mm.”

Greg kissed his hair and Mycroft smiled, nuzzling his chest. “Mycroft. You are. I can’t even.”

Mycroft sighed. “I need to move.”

“No. No moving.”

Mycroft laughed. “I really need to move.”

“Kiss me first.”

And that was an invitation Mycroft could never refuse. He sat up and gave him a leisurely kiss. “Wonderful,” he whispered. He sat up and handed Greg a packet of tissues before getting up. He walked across the room and pulled a dressing gown on. He looked round to where Greg lay naked on the sheets, one hand above his head, the other on his stomach, one leg stretched out, the other bent at the knee, his cock soft against his stomach.

Mycroft smiled at the sight and wandered through to his bedroom, collecting his clothes on the way, so he could use the en-suite.

He splashed cold water on his face and dressed, and he was sure he could smell Greg against his skin.

He went back to the kitchen to put the lasagna in the oven, smiling as Greg joined him there. “Did you make that earlier?” Greg asked.

“I did. I was expecting we would be eating earlier but…”

“Well you kind of jumped me,” Greg laughed.

“I did not jump you.” Mycroft turned to him. “I merely-”

“-Got carried away?”

Mycroft smiled, walking towards him. “I find you quite irresistible at times.” He kissed him softly, blinking at the roll of thunder outside.

“Storm’s pretty bad,” Greg said. Mycroft nodded and walked through to the living room. He stood by the balcony doors, watching a fork of lightening over the houses on the other side of the road. Greg was stood behind him, his arms wrapped around Mycroft’s middle. Mycroft counted the seconds between the thunder and the lightening, entwining Greg’s fingers with his own.

“Twenty nine,” he whispered.

“Mmm,” Greg murmured, kissing the side of his neck. “You like windows. You always look out of the window.”

Mycroft laughed and leaned back against him, resting his head on Greg’s shoulders. “Yes, I like windows.”

They stood in silence as the rain continued to pour. They moved the furniture around so the settee was closer to the fire. Greg found the Shawshank Redemption in Mycroft’s film collection. He stood in the doorway to the kitchen, watching as Greg took his picture down to put the disk in. Mycroft smiled to himself, finding peace with Greg being so at ease in his home. It had been empty for too long. It seemed it only felt right when Greg was there too, filling the silence and finding ways to make Mycroft feel warm and happy.

They settled on the sofa beneath a blanket together, Mycroft resting between Greg’s legs, his back against his chest.

After a while, Mycroft served their dinner and they ate it on the settee. It was something Mycroft would never have done normally, eating anywhere but the kitchen. But he allowed it this time, not worried about the mess.

They relaxed together again, sharing sporadic kisses. Never once did they separate. Mycroft just lay in his arms, feeling sheltered and protected. He knew this was what _normal_ people enjoyed. He knew they didn’t deal with wars and nuclear weapons and state secrets, but this was better than knowledge. This was what people needed. To be touched, held, wanted, needed.

Mycroft turned in his arms as the credits began to roll. Their lips met and Mycroft smiled.

“How was it?” Greg asked.

“Excellent.”

“Yeah, it’s a great film.” They kissed tenderly. Mycroft considered his bedroom while they kissed. The sheets were newly-washed, and he couldn’t bear to wake up and not have Greg with him, even though he had to fly to America the next day. He opened his mouth to speak, to tell him to stay the night, but Greg spoke first. “Mycroft.”

“Mm?”

“I don’t know. I just wanted to say cheers.”

“What for?”

“Well, y’know-” And then Greg’s phone began to ring. Mycroft frowned and returned his head to Greg’s chest, closing his eyes as he answered it. “Lestrade. Oh, shit, what?”

Mycroft bit his lip, sighing. Trouble. “I’ll be at the Yard in 20 minutes, alright?” Greg said.

Mycroft turned round to look at him. “Trouble?” he asked, stroking his cheek.

“Apparently. I’m sorry, I’m going to have to go.”

Mycroft nodded and sat up. “I understand.”

Greg kissed his shoulder. “I really don’t want to, but they need man-power right now, and God knows what else.”

Mycroft kissed him softly, pushing down the disappointment. “No one understands work pressures better than I do. It’s quite alright.”

They each stood up, Greg putting his coat on. Mycroft sighed and wandered over to him, cupping his face in his hands, kissing him and savouring it and silently promising to be back with him soon. “Greg?”

“Yeah?”

“I’m going to be away all of December for work. I leave tomorrow.”

“Oh, right, sure. Okay.”

“Look after Sherlock?”

Greg pulled him into his arms, and Mycroft relaxed against him. “I promise,” Greg said. Mycroft returned the embrace, closing his eyes and trying not to cling too much. They kissed again, soft and all-too-short. “Message me, whenever you get five minutes.”

Mycroft nodded. “I will.”

They gazed at each other, Greg taking a deep breath as though he was preparing to say something. Instead he swallowed and smiled a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “Right. Look after yourself.”

“And you, Greg.”

Greg nodded and opened the door. “See you in January, yeah?”

“I promise.”

Greg closed the door and Mycroft glanced down at his feet. He turned the lights on and cleared away the plates and dishes and picked up all his books that had fallen onto the floor. He read for a while on the settee, listening to that Jeff Buckley album again. When he went to bed, he curled up in the spare room. He could smell Greg’s aftershave on the sheets.


	28. Security

**December 2006.**

**Location: Forte Meade, Maryland, United States of America.**

It was poised to be a long month. Anthea was in charge of Mycroft’s office for the time being, reporting on Sherlock’s whereabouts, any problems regarding Greg’s security and safety and anything else which happened to crop up. As far as the Prime Minister was concerned, Mycroft was taking a two-week holiday and would then be dealing with other matters. He was unobtainable unless there was a crisis. And a genuine crisis, not a made-up one.

So much so, that Mycroft’s work calls were being diverted to Anthea and by-passing Mycroft completely, while he bought himself a new phone once he arrived in the States.

He went through several layers of security to gain access to the NSA building, alongside Ruth Barker of GCHQ. And finally, they were inside.

The first and second days involved a tour and meeting the main bosses and directors. He and Ruth were staying at the same hotel but hardly said a word to one another until the third day, when she cornered him at breakfast. “I think you and I should have a chat,” she said.

Mycroft raised his eyebrows as he spread some butter over his toast. “Well, it’s only something I’ve been requesting for the past, oh, 18 months?”

She rolled her eyes and sat down opposite him, putting her tray down. “May I?” she asked, pointing to the little pots of butter.

“Be my guest.”

She narrowed her eyes at him and opened one of the pots, spreading the butter over her own toast, glaring at Mycroft simultaneously.

“What, precisely, is the problem you have with me?” Mycroft asked after a minute of her aggressive spreading.

“You’re getting involved in matters that don’t concern you,” she retorted. “I run a successful operation, and I don’t need chauvinists getting involved, thinking they could do a better job than I do.”

“Is that what you think I am?” Mycroft asked, smiling. “It’s an interesting analysis, I’ll grant you that.”

She continued to watch him, her face stern, as it appeared it always was. “Then what is it?”

“My work, your work, it all seems to have certain connections and I merely want to work more closely with you. I’m not against you. In fact, I knew your predecessor, and I was relieved when he retired.”

Ruth paused, spooning sugar into her coffee. “Who invited you here?”

“The Deputy Director of the NSA.”

“Why?”

Mycroft smiled coolly at her. “Apparently he likes my work.”

“He hates me rather a lot,” she muttered.

Mycroft nodded. “Yes, that has been quite apparent. What did you do to annoy him so much?”

“We shouldn’t talk here.”

“Yes, quite right.” Mycroft sipped his coffee, pulling a face. “I was under the impression the Americans produced good coffee.”

“Not for these hotels.”

Mycroft smiled and nodded. “Yes, not for these hotels.”

Ruth paused over her own breakfast, reaching up to push some of her red hair back behind her ear. “Hugh Seagroves spoke to me about you.”

“What did he have to say?” Mycroft asked.

“That you’re a bit of twazzock. But good at your job. Whatever your job is.”

“National security has always been, and always will be, my number one priority. Everything else…” Mycroft waved his hand. “I dabble in other areas.”

“You dabble.”

“Occasionally. When it’s required.” Mycroft met her eyes. “Hugh Seagroves told me about you too.”

“And what did he say?”

“That you get the job done, whatever it takes, whomever you need to step on and over to do it. That your predecessor wasn’t so much calling time on an outstanding career but was rather… pushed.”

“He was backward-thinking.”

“And you’re not,” Mycroft murmured. “I admire that.”

They took a car together, both staring out of the windows. “May Mr Holmes and I have some time alone?” Ruth asked when they arrived. They were led to an office and they each took a seat on the settee.

Ruth turned to him. “The work we’re doing here over the next few weeks, it involves assessing new technology and seeing how GCHQ can better work alongside the NSA to create a safer world.”

“To spy on more people,” Mycroft corrected.

“To save lives.”

Mycroft frowned for a moment. “Fine. Carry on.”

“I want to shift more responsibilities to GCHQ.”

“Of course you do,” Mycroft murmured. “You’re power mad.”

She began to laugh. “And you’re not?” she asked, taking a mirror out of her handbag and re-applying her red lipstick.

“Hardly. But I like knowledge.”

“Knowledge is power.”

“No,” Mycroft said. “Secrets are power. You can do rather a lot with secrets. You can bring down entire Governments with the right information.”

She smiled. “Some Governments deserve to be brought down. But that’s not something I am concerned with. I just want to protect the British public.”

Mycroft nodded. “I’ll assist you in getting what you want. Your negotiation skills leave a lot to be desired.”

“And that’s why the Deputy NSA Director hates me so much.”

“No, Mrs Barker. That isn’t why he hates you. He hates you because you’ve broken a status quo which has been successful for the past 15 years. You’ve broken the mould and shaken everything up.”

“Good,” she muttered, standing up.

Mycroft smiled and nodded. “Yes,” he agreed. “Yes, very good indeed.”

That evening, he and Ruth worked long into the night on figuring out just what she wanted from her time at the NSA. Mycroft had no particular aims of his own, beside wanting to get her on side. He agreed to help her where he could, in exchange for more interaction between themselves. They shook hands at 2am, and went to their own rooms.

* * *

Anthea joined him for one day when he went on a day-trip to New York to spend some time with the members of the Security Council. It was a dull, exhausting day and Mycroft was shattered by the time he returned to Maryland.

The project - Ruth’s pet project - involved sourcing information from the backbone of the internet. It would intercept the fibre optic cables and access large amounts of data. It would include emails and search histories, and if possible, phone calls.

“Large amounts of innocent peoples’ data,” Mycroft was quick to point out to her as they sat drinking a bottle of wine in her hotel room. “This would make no distinction between threats and those whose lives we’ve sworn to protect.”

Ruth just looked at him. “I don’t think this is an argument I’m willing to engage in,” she said. “We either do this or we don’t. And I say we do it.”

Mycroft held his hands up. “And I support your decisions.”

It would take years in the planning, Mycroft supposed. He spent a few nights meeting with NSA employees, not discussing work, but socialising and making contacts. He tended not to drink, sticking with a glass of water or a coffee. Playing fast and loose with alcohol was a dangerous business when they were involved in something so secretive.

He sat down with his laptop one evening, and sent an email to Greg, the first opportunity he’d really had to even think about him.

_Dear Greg,_  
_I hope this message finds you well. I have been in meetings all week. Many of them have been rather lengthy, and it has been difficult to fit meals in, let alone sleep. These people all appear to suffer from constant insomnia. Meetings spontaneously start at 4am in an assortment of hotel rooms and bars. It is quite bizarre._  
_I hope everything is well in London, and you are busy but not overly so. I trust Sherlock is behaving himself?_  
_I don’t know if it’s acceptable to tell you I’m counting down the days until January. Not only because it means this constant tedium draws to a close and I’m finally able to get some sleep, but because I’m looking forward to seeing you again._  
_Anthea took a surreptitious photograph of someone fast asleep in a meeting. I thought it was amusing and attached it to this email._  
_Kindest regards,  
_ _Mycroft Holmes._

The new joint NSA-GCHQ project would require 1,000 machines at least, along with hundreds of staff working on it. They wanted to be able to sift through billions of pieces of content a day.

And after a few negotiations, the wheels were put in motion for greater internet surveillance.

_Hi,_  
_It’s good to hear from you. Make sure you get some time to eat and sleep!_  
_Work’s fine, thanks for asking. Busy, yeah, but most of the murderers seem to have got into the festive spirit, so mostly they’re all pretty obvious crimes of passion and family fights gone wrong._  
_Lots of shoplifting though._  
_Sherlock’s fine - bit bored. I’m keeping a close eye on him. No more ‘experiments’ recently. But I’ll keep him busy._  
_It’s more than acceptable to tell me that. I’m looking forward to seeing you too._  
_Great pic! Tell Anthea to get one of you and send it to me! I’d like that more than pics of random sleeping men! Talk when you can._  
_Cheers.  
_ _Greg._

Mycroft paused over the email when he received it. Who would care about personal messages between two people? So, should he be bothered that some security expert on the other side of the corld read it if it meant he was safer because of it? But then he went to another meeting and he hardly had time to reply.

A week later, he finally got around to it.

_Dear Greg,_   
_I am exhausted. I’m eating. Don’t worry._   
_Sherlock has ignored both messages I sent him. Check on him please?_   
_I continue to miss you._   
_Kindest regards,_   
_Mycroft Holmes._

_Hi Mycroft,_   
_Get some sleep you silly sod._   
_Sherlock’s being annoying, but he’s fine. He interviewed a member of the public yesterday. I didn’t give him permission, he just started doing it. It was awful. Won’t happen again, believe me. He made a grown man cry. I wanted to smack him one. (I didn’t actually do it, but Sally was even closer than I was, believe me!)_   
_He solved it though. Abernetty case is all wrapped up now. He put it on his blog. Did you see it? He cut me out of it completely even though I remembered the Kent bit and he didn’t! The git. Typical Sherlock._   
_I miss you too. Don’t be a stranger when you get back. Talk soon._   
_Cheers._   
_Greg._

* * *

The phone call came when Mycroft should have been sleeping.

He wasn’t sleeping, because he’d been woken up for a 1.30am visit to the NSA, to see the inner workings of its intelligence-gathering process. Apparently only a night-time visit was sufficient to see the extraordinary amounts of data being collected.

The phone call was from Anthea, but she immediately diverted it to Sherlock. “You need to hear it from him,” she’d said.

“Sherlock,” Mycroft murmured, ducking into the men’s toilets and checking it was unoccupied. “This better be good. It’s not a good time for your histrionics.”

“Lestrade’s being bugged.”

Mycroft frowned, leaning against the sinks. He let the words sink in, reverberating around his head for a few seconds. “How do you know?”

“We found it in the lining of his coat.” Sherlock’s voice was unusually grave, as though he already understood the repercussions of it.

“What have you done with it?” Mycroft asked.

“We’ve put it in the bathroom for the moment. Lestrade’s going to dispose of it tomorrow, without destroying it. I don’t think we gave away that we know about it.”

Mycroft bit his bottom lip. “Are you sure about that?” he asked.

“I can’t make a guarantee, but I’d say we did the best job under the circumstances.”

“How hi-tech is it?”

“It looks expensive.”

“Has anything else happened while I’ve been gone?” Mycroft asked. “Anyone suspicious hovering about?”

“Not that I’ve seen.”

“Keep an eye on him, Sherlock. Both eyes when you can.”

“Got any suspects?”

Mycroft nodded. “Plenty,” he said. He hung up the phone and told Anthea to up Greg’s surveillance to the highest level. It was surveillance usually dedicated to suspected terrorists, but he was taking no chances. Greg would not come to any harm, not on his watch.

* * *

**December 1995.**

**Location: Orange County, California, United States of America.**

_Jimmy’s idea of Christmas dinner at his holiday home involved too many courses to count. He dished up fish and meat and far too many vegetables for the two of them. By the end of the day, Mycroft was lying on top of the bed, groaning as he patted his stomach. “This is worth a week in the gym,” he muttered, frowning._

_Jimmy laughed, shuffling down to kiss his stomach. “As long as you’re not suffering with food poisoning, it’s all good.”_

_Mycroft smiled. “For that, we’ll have to wait and see.” He reached out, running his fingers through Jimmy’s hair and accepting the kiss he offered. “Thank you for dinner.”_

_“No worries. I feel like I need to do some work or something.”_

_“You don’t, do you?”_

_“Nah. Just not used to having Christmas off.” Jimmy sat up, topping up Mycroft’s wine glass and opening a bottle of beer for himself. Mycroft nodded and sat up, taking the glass from him. He hummed in approval as he had a sip, turning to look out of the window. “We can head to the beach tomorrow,” Jimmy said. “Go and have a bit of a wander around, see the sights.”_

_Mycroft nodded, turning his head to kiss his jaw. “Then it’s back onto the wheel.”_

_“I’m gonna put my name down to go to that raid in Pakistan.”_

_“I didn’t think the finer details of that had been worked out yet.”_

_“They haven’t. And normally I wouldn’t get involved and I would hang out here. But after they lost two men last month, they’re out of people and, well, I’m more use in the thick of it than sitting around here.”_

_“You’re useful wherever you are,” Mycroft said carefully._

_“You don’t want me to go.”_

_Mycroft shook his head. “You’ll note that I didn’t say that. But it comes with enormous risk.”_

_“Yeah, but. God, if we get this, if we sort this… I don’t have to be the one running in. In fact, I’d rather not, actually. But I do want to try to help plan it. It’s all of Hilel Klahr’s men. It’s all the guys who stepped up to replace him. If we can take them out…” Jimmy shrugged. “And anyway. Toby Goff’s definitely due a promotion and I’d quite like to step into his shoes.”_

_“It’s your audition then, is it?” Mycroft asked._

_Jimmy nodded. “Overdue. I know I have to prove myself. And I know I’m not everybody’s first choice. I’m not exactly the serious desk type like Toby is.”_

_“You’d be my first choice.”_

_Jimmy turned to him and grinned, putting his bottle down and taking Mycroft’s wine glass from his hand. He straddled Mycroft’s lap, beginning to unfasten his shirt. “You know what? I’m my first choice too.”_

_Mycroft laughed, resting his hands on his hips. “I’ll join you. If you think I’d benefit your team.”_

_“I know you’d benefit my team. You’ve got everything I need. Except. I’m not sure it’s a good idea.”_

_Mycroft frowned. “Why not?”_

_“Well it’s… all bit a dangerous, isn’t it?”_

_“I’m not planning to be in the field. I’ll do the same job I did last time I was in Pakistan, monitoring communications.”_

_Jimmy paused, kissing Mycroft’s forehead. “Believe me, it’s not that I don’t want you there.”_

_“What then?”_

_“I do want you there. You’re awesome at your job. People respect you, they know how good you are.”_

_“Get to the point, Jimmy.”_

_“I don’t want you to get hurt.”_

_Mycroft frowned at him. “I won’t get hurt. I’ll just be…” He paused, reaching up to cup Jimmy’s cheek. “What aren’t you telling me?”_

_“I’m telling you everything you need to know.”_

_“No, you’re evidently not. What’s different about this one?”_

_“I won’t be in the field. I’ll just be in charge of operating-”_

_“-Jimmy.”_

_Jimmy frowned, kissing Mycroft’s neck. “Fine,” he muttered. “Come. I want you on board.”_

_Mycroft bit his lip and nodded, leaning in and kissing him slowly. Jimmy pushed Mycroft’s shirt off his shoulders, running his hands down his chest. They held each other’s eyes for a moment._

_“Forget work,” Jimmy whispered, beginning to trail kisses down his neck. “It’s Christmas.”_

_Mycroft nodded and drew him closer, trying to ignore how unsettled he felt while he focused on Jimmy’s warm skin and how satisfying it was to have him close._

* * *

**December 2006.**

**Location: Forte Meade, Maryland, United States of America.**

He couldn’t stop thinking about Greg. He was receiving regular reports on his movements and he was informed that Sherlock had checked the rest of his jackets. But despite that, despite that, he wanted nothing more than to return to London. And he just couldn’t. He had too much work to do.

He sat down with his laptop at 3.30am and put in a video call to Anthea. “I’m sure you should be in bed,” she said, frowning at him. She was sat in Mycroft’s office at Whitehall, sipping her tea.

“How is everything?”

“Running like clockwork,” she said.

“And Greg?”

Anthea shook her head. “There’s nothing to add to the last reports I sent you.”

“The spying on him could have been going on for months. Right under our noses.”

“Yes,” she agreed. “But you know now. There’s no reason to believe they were doing it to follow him. They were probably following you.”

“I know.” Mycroft frowned and smoothed out the papers on his desk. “I’ll fly to Belgium tomorrow for this Organisation for Security And Cooperation In Europe discussion. Am I correct in thinking the Prime Minister will be there?”

“I expect so.”

“How’s Sherlock?”

“Drug-free,” Anthea said. She pulled a face. “Well.”

“Well what?”

“Our surveillance picked up on him visiting one of his usual haunts. Jim Braum picked him up. He said to Sherlock that he ‘just happened’ to be in the area.”

“Sherlock won’t tolerate that happening again,” Mycroft pointed out.

“I know. And Jim won’t do it again either, I expect, not without your say-so.”

Mycroft nodded. “I need to sleep. I’ll speak to you in a few days. Please keep me as up-to-date as you can with how things are going with the bug.”

He hung up the call and undressed, getting into bed. Every call he made, he had to assume, was being monitored. Every move was being observed. Every step he took, he was being watched and followed.

He would trust no one. Not even his own staff.

Mycroft finally got around to calling Greg to warn him. But he couldn’t - wouldn’t - say very much to him. "Don't say a word,” he ordered. “Just listen to me. Sherlock told me what happened. Don't do anything unusual. We are on top of it, I promise you."

"Myc-"

"-Don't say anything. We are on top of the problem. Trust me."

He hung up, and got into the car to head to the airport to go to Belgium. He took his pills for the flight over, but he was still groggy as he arrived at his hotel. He’d just about showered and dressed and was trying to work out what time it was when there was a knock on the door. Mycroft frowned and opened it. “Yes?” he asked, studying the man aged in his 20s with a large black beard.

“Are you Mycroft Holmes?”

Mycroft pursed his lips. “Unfortunately,” he murmured, thinking all he wanted was to be in bed rather than dealing with work. “Who’s asking?”

“I’m the Defence Secretary’s new assistant.” The man held out a brown envelope and Mycroft took it, frowning.

“Do you know what’s in here?” he asked.

The man shook his head. “No, sir,” he said. “He will be at the meetings tomorrow morning, but he insisted you read these first. He said you’d be able to do something with them.”

Mycroft nodded a few times. “Thank you,” he said softly, before closing the door. He picked up a letter opener and slit the envelope open. He took out the pile of papers. They were all emails, in various languages, all sent from RL6 and Rickard Luck himself.

It took half an hour before he realised it all proved RL6 had been committing fraud, negotiating with politicians from various Eastern European countries. Mycroft put the papers down and closed his eyes, dropping his head into his hands. He had it here, now. Every shred of evidence he’d been collating for years. The final proof.

He could just hand it all over to the Serious Fraud Office, then it would be publicly investigated. Rickard Luck would go to jail.

But it was personal now. Jail wasn’t good enough for him. Mycroft wanted… he wanted him dead.

He tucked the papers away in his briefcase to use later, but for now, he was back in control of the game. He had a back-up option. He lay in bed and rather than sleeping, he began to come up with a plan.

The next morning, Mycroft murmured a thank you to the Secretary for Defence before sitting down to observe the meetings. He scribbled out a note to Greg to apologise for his abruptness on the phone. He sent a Christmas card, and bought him a pair of tickets to an Arsenal football match. And then he travelled back to America.

* * *

On Christmas Day, he rang his parents. He was sat in his hotel room doing some work and called them just as they would have been finishing their lunch.

“Oh, Mycroft,” his mother said. “It’s such a shame you couldn’t join us again this year.”

“My work demanded I remained in America, I’m afraid. I’m sorry.”

“You missed a wonderful feast,” she told him. “A three-bird roast.”

“I’m sure it was cooked to perfection.”

“It was,” she said. “Sherlock joined us.”

Mycroft frowned. “That makes a change.”

“We were surprised too. Of course, he came unannounced as always. Seemed in quite a mood.”

“He’s always in a mood.”

“Worse than usual. Are you keeping an eye on him?”

“Whenever I can spare it,” Mycroft murmured.

“And who is Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade, Myc?”

Mycroft paused, frowning. “I take it that was Sherlock’s doing.”

“He said a few things, yes.”

“Greg is…” Mycroft sighed. “I suppose you would say we were together.” There was a pause on the other end of the line. Mycroft frowned. “Mother?”

“I’m here. I wasn’t aware you were in a relationship. Sherlock only said he was working with a Detective Inspector and that you tolerated or approved of it.”

Mycroft grimaced. Outwitted by his mother. Typical. “Ah.”

“You should have told us you were seeing someone.”

“He’s a good man,” Mycroft said, ignoring her complaints. “He does a lot of good in working with Sherlock and helping him with his… addictions.”

“I see. And how is he for you?”

“He’s a good man,” Mycroft repeated. “I’m sorry, I need to go. I hope you’ve had a good day.” He hung up the phone and groaned to himself.

* * *

**December 1995.**

**Location: Orange County, California, United States of America.**

_Jimmy was sprawled out over the bottom of the bed on his stomach, naked, but for a Santa hat with a bell at the end. Mycroft glanced up at him from over his side of the Battleships board._

_“You can’t read my mind,” Jimmy said, sipping his beer. “You have no idea where I’ve put my submarine.”_

_Mycroft hummed. He was wearing Jimmy’s t-shirt with his own boxers, a glass of wine in hand. He studied the grid in front of him. “H6,” he said._

_“Wrong,” Jimmy said with a grin._

_Mycroft frowned and sipped his wine. “This game is ridiculous,” he muttered, staring down at his sunken ships._

_“I’m just an expert. D3.”_

_“Damn,” Mycroft muttered as Jimmy sunk the last of his ships._

_Jimmy grinned. “And it’s another win,” he said. He looked up at Mycroft. “Stop pouting.”_

_“Not pouting.”_

_Jimmy grinned and put the game down on the floor. He crawled up the bed, lying down on the bed beside him. He reached out and rubbed Mycroft’s thigh. “So, I think we can agree that I’m better at war strategy than you are.”_

_“Unlike in this game, ships move.”_

_“Not very fast,” Jimmy said with a grin. “And I know you cheated.”_

_Mycroft pursed his lips. “I did not cheat.”_

_“Uh huh,” Jimmy said, tugging Mycroft’s hand and trying to pull him down to join him. “Course you didn’t.”_

_Mycroft smiled and shuffled down to kiss him, getting under the covers. “You look ridiculous,” he said, flicking the bell at the top of Jimmy’s hat._

_Jimmy nodded and nuzzled Mycroft’s neck. “Would be a lot easier if war was all about shouting out co-ordinates, wouldn’t it?”_

_“Yes. Why did you join the CIA, Jimmy?”_

_“I dunno. I used to read the James Bond books. Thought it seemed kind of glamorous. And until I was 23, no one knew I was gay except the men I picked up in bars. I was an expert at subterfuge. So good at it, in fact, that my parents thought I had girlfriends and everything. My dad’s in a wheelchair because he got hurt fighting a war. I guess I kinda… wanted to give him something back. I was an angry adult when I joined up.”_

_“Most people I’ve asked… they say they joined because it was all about defending the United States’ freedoms.”_

_Jimmy nodded. “I know. And it’s a great answer. It just isn’t my answer.”_

_“But you’re devoted to your job,” Mycroft said softly, putting his head down on the pillow. “You’ll do everything it takes.”_

_“What’s the point otherwise? I’ve always taken risks. Ski-diving, rock-climbing… any extreme sports. I’ve broken so many bones in my body that I lost count. I’m not really scared of dying or getting hurt. I just like to be busy. I like adrenaline.”_

_“But you take risks,” Mycroft murmured. “I’ve seen you do it, in your work already. You throw yourself into the fray… do you have a death wish?”_

_“No. No, I don’t want to die. I’m just not scared of the prospect.”_

_Mycroft swallowed. “I see,” he said quietly._

_“Myc,” Jimmy said, kissing his forehead and then his nose. “You don’t need to worry, alright? I’m bloody amazing at my work.”_

_Mycroft managed a smile. “I know,” he said._

_Jimmy grinned and kissed him. “So, tomorrow, you and me, we’ll go out to some fancy place to eat and I’ll show you my old school, how about that?”_

_“I’d like that," he agreed._

* * *

**December 2006.**

**Location: Orange County, California, United States of America.**

Jimmy Dine’s grave was no where special. It was in a line with a host of others. It didn’t stand out or make a statement. It wasn’t ostentatious. It was very much the antithesis of everything Jimmy had been. It was a plain black stone, with his date of birth and date of death and his name. No message about being a much-loved son, or devoted friend. Everyone who knew him knew without being told. Little white flowers had sprouted up in the ground surrounding it.

The only other symbol on his grave was a single star, a sign of his dedication to his country. There was another star tribute to him in the CIA headquarters at Langley, on the Memorial Wall. Mycroft had seen that a few times, and he often lingered by it when he went there, reaching out and brushing his fingers against the cold stone.

This was only the second time Mycroft visited his grave. The first had been almost 11 years ago, when it was first installed. It took him just under an hour to find it.

The cemetery was mostly deserted. Mycroft swallowed and put a single white lily down on the grass in front of it.

He’d never spent much time at gravestones. He’d visited his grandfather’s a few times, and he always ensured he had a few words. He knew they were worthless really, that the dead didn’t hear them. But it brought him some comfort, and he supposed that was the point.

“I know you had terrible hayfever,” Mycroft said quietly. “I think you’d appreciate the irony that your grave is now surrounded by flowers.” He clenched his jaw. “I know I’ve not come here for a long time. I’m sorry for that, though I know you’d scoff at it anyway. I thought you should know that I met someone. He’s… he’s like you in some ways. Perhaps a little more mellow. I think you’d have got on if you’d ever…”

Mycroft brushed the top of the stone with his fingers. “You’re an idiot,” he said quietly. “I’m still furious at you. But you’ve not been forgotten. And I’m not alone anymore. I thought you might like to know that.”

He lingered for a few minutes, resting his hand on the stone, before turning around and walking back the way he came. 


	29. Calm After The Storm

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter includes terrorism.

**January 2007.**

**Location: Coeur de Lion Offices, Mayfair, London.**

“Happy new year, Anthea,” Mycroft said with a smile as he sat down at his desk. He felt much brighter for finally being back in England. It may have been cold and wet, but it was home.

He picked up the red envelope on his desk and tore it open. He smiled as he read the message from Greg inside the Christmas card and he stood it up on his desk. He hoped he’d be able to spend the day settling in and getting over his jet lag before seeing him the following day.

“Happy new year,” Anthea said, smiling across at him.

Mycroft nodded, looking around his office. “I never thought I’d miss this room,” he muttered, frowning. “Where do we start?”

It took most of the morning for Anthea to fill him in on everything that had happened in the past four weeks, and everything he hadn’t been able to stay on top of.

“What about Rickard Luck?” she asked.

“We step everything up a gear. I’m going to persuade the Prime Minister to approve his damned Twister fighter jets, with or without the alterations he needs to make.” He paused, frowning. “And I’m going to invest in RL6.”

Anthea blinked at him. “Invest?” she asked.

“I need him to think I’m on his side.”

“You’re committing fraud,” she said. “You know about the Twisters, and that they’re going to be approved. Get Arnou to invest.”

“Anthea…”

“He’s so far away from this office that no one will make the connection. We don’t live together. When we go to parties or events, it’s never with politicians or secret service personnel.”

Mycroft shook his head. “I can’t risk his or your money like that. And it won’t work. Rickard Luck needs to think I’m not only on his side, but that I will do anything to further my own career and wealth, however illegal it is. He knows I’ve been chasing him for all these years. But what if he thinks I now want to work with him, not against him? I wouldn’t invest in a company I was trying to destroy, would I?”

“If anyone finds out…”

“What is life without a little personal risk?” Mycroft asked.

“And financial risk? Is it worth it?”

“I’ll know when to pull my money out because I will be the person leaking everything to the press. I’ll get it out in time, and I’ll pay the tax on it as a silent apology to the nation. Any profits, I’ll put into this office. We may be able to take on a few more staff.”

“What if you make a loss?” Anthea asked.

“Does that matter, when Rickard Luck will be gone?”

“What about the Defence Secretary? He knows Rickard Luck is committing fraud. What if he leaks it before you have a chance to?”

Mycroft paused. “He’ll need something from me to keep him quiet. What is he working on?”

“I’ll find out,” Anthea said.

“If he’s got a special project or something, I’ll try to manipulate the Prime Minister into approving it. Or if there are any negotiations I can aid with, I’ll move things along. Hopefully we can buy his silence that way.”

Anthea nodded and stood up. “I’ll find out what he’s working on,” she said again. She bit her lip, frowning.

“You’re uncomfortable,” Mycroft murmured, watching her.

“I don’t think you’ve done anything like this before,” she said. “Something so illegal.”

“If you think it’ll be the last time I’ll ever put pen to paper to break the law, you might as well leave this office.”

She shook her head. “You know I’m all yours,” she said. “I’ll see everything done.”

“Bring me everything I need to know to make an investment.”

“Do you need a lawyer?” she asked. “Or a bank manager or something?”

“No, I take care of my own investments. And I’m well-versed in the law.”

“If this backfires…”

Mycroft smiled a little wistfully at her. “When you play with fire and a man like Rickard Luck, sometimes you have to accept the burns.”

Anthea nodded and left him to contact the Prime Minister and urge him to approve the Twister fighter jets, no matter the destruction they could rage on thousands of innocent lives. He could only hope they would never take to the skies.

* * *

Mycroft was preparing to go home at 9pm when his computer pinged. He frowned and opened the programme. There were communications coming from MI5. He closed it down, knowing the agents who formerly worked for MI5 were on top of all the intelligence coming through his office.

He was putting his coat on when there was a knock on the door. “Come in,” he called out.

Madhubala Selling, who preferred to go by Mads, and Erin Bareford were stood there, having bypassed the protocols and Anthea. “The threat was written in Arabic,” Mads explained. “From a known member of-”

Mycroft’s phone began to ring. He frowned and picked it up, holding his hand out to silence them. “Yes?”

“It’s Nadia Swift from MI5.”

“Nadia,” Mycroft murmured. "A threat?”

“You got it too then. We need your team,” she said. “There’s an attack pending in London.”

“We’re on our way,” Mycroft said, putting the phone down. “Where’s Anthea?”

“It’s her birthday dinner,” Erin reminded him.

“Right,” Mycroft muttered, sending a quick text to Jim Braum. “Collect your laptops and anything you need, we leave this office in three minutes.”

He grabbed his coat and scarf, shutting down his own laptop and sending a message to Anthea about what was happening, but urging her to stay where she was. Minutes later, he was followed by Mads and Erin down the stairs.

“Where is the threat?” Mycroft asked.

Mads was reading his laptop. “I’m only reading this as fast as it’s been transcribed back at Thames House. There’s no proposed targets yet. It says the attack is planned for tomorrow. But there’s no location yet… no, it says locations will be confirmed tomorrow.”

“We get threats all the time,” Mycroft said. “What’s different about this one? Why is Nadia Swift so concerned?”

Mads stayed quiet for a moment, studying the papers. “Because we lost this group of suspected terrorists 18 months ago.”

“We lost them?”

“France lost them. But we were trailing them too… we all lost them.”

Mycroft nodded and stared out of the window. Their security checks took five minutes, and then Mycroft led his team up to Nadia Swift’s domain. They shook hands. “I know Erin,” Nadia said, greeting her. “And I recognise you, Mycroft, but I don’t…”

“Madhubala Selling,” Mads said, shaking her hand. “Or Mads.”

“Good, well, come and meet everyone in here and I’ll show you where we are.” Nadia guided them to where her intelligence officers were working, collecting information, checking facts and carrying out translations.

“You get threats every day,” Mycroft murmured to her. “But you think this one is genuine?”

“Not only is it genuine, we’re dealing what we perceive to be a very real threat this time. A lot of what we’re getting through appears to be snatches of information. Half a conversation or half a message. There are some codes and numbers we can't figure out, and we’ve got people working on them as we speak.”

“Tell me what you want me to do.”

“In all honesty, Mycroft, I want you to do your old job. You see patterns no one else does, and I’d be remiss not to consult with you on this one. Do you want my office?”

Mycroft shook his head. “No, I’ll set up on this desk here.” He put his laptop down, logging into it. “I want access to your systems, have you got someone who can set that up for me?”

“Yes, yes, I’ll get one of our IT guys working on it.” Nadia waved her hand and a young man sat down with Mycroft’s laptop.

Mycroft stood over his shoulder, watching as he got to work. “Nadia, I need a pen, a notepad and… do you still use that old system we had back in the 1990s?”

She stared at him. “The 1990s? Mycroft, it’s 2006.”

“Yes, but there was a programme where you could search for common words and pronunciations in recorded speech. It was created by…” He frowned as she continued to stare blankly at him.

“It was called Linga, and we have a better version now,” the IT man said, looking up at him. “Do you want it?”

“I want the old version,” Mycroft muttered. “Yes, give me whatever it is.”

The man flashed him a smile and continued to work. Mycroft nodded a thank you to Mads as he brought him some of the new reports. “How many agents do you already have on the ground?” Mycroft asked, turning to Nadia.

“Not as many as we want. But we’ve got a whole city and no where to put them.”

“Are we following any suspects who we may be able to track?”

“Yes,” Nadia replied, handing him a list of faces and names on a piece of paper. Mycroft skimmed through it before handing it over to Mads.

“Mads, I need you to copy the work you did a year ago when we were following that Polish secret service agent, do you remember? I want it on the same scale for every name on here.”

“Yes, sir,” Mads said, walking to settle himself down by a computer. “I need a whiteboard and a pen!” he called out, and there must have been something about Mycroft’s authority, because soon people were rushing to give Mads what he needed.

“What’s he doing?” Nadia asked.

“Mads has a technique… something I quite want to learn myself, actually,” Mycroft told her. “He has a way of creating a grid in his mind of the whole city, and using MI5’s surveillance information and CCTV images he can pick apart a person’s travel details, right down to what trains and buses and taxis they took.” Mycroft felt an odd sense of pride come over him at that. “He’s quite a talent.”

“Quite a talent you stole from us,” Nadia said.

Mycroft smiled. “No one was utilising him here. Did you know he had those skills?”

“I wasn’t in charge then,” she reminded him. “But if I had been, I’d never have let him go.”

Mycroft nodded and sat down at his computer as the IT man got up. He frowned as his phone went off, not recognising the number. “Mycroft Holmes,” he murmured.

“Mycroft, it’s Rusell Toye from the General Directorate for Internal Security,” the man said in French.

Mycroft frowned. “Yes, Rusell,” he replied in Rusell’s native tongue. “What can I do for you?”

“We have a situation. Terrorists are declaring an attack in Paris tomorrow morning.”

Mycroft leaned back in his chair. “What do you need me for?” he asked.

“They say they are also planning an attack in London.”

Mycroft paused. “We know. We have messages about London. Share everything you have with me and I will do likewise. I’ll liaise between our two organisations.”

“Thank you. I wanted to call you because I know we have a good relationship. I hope we can come out of this with that intact.”

“Of course,” Mycroft said. “I’ll start sending reports now.” Mycroft hung up and turned to Nadia. “A similar attack is being planned in France tomorrow. We’ll be working with the French on this.”

She stared at him and checked her watch. “It’s 9.45pm now. I imagine the terrorists will aim for rush hour, so we should expect an attack between 6am and 10am.”

Mycroft nodded. “Then we’re looking for busy commuter routes. Buses, trains. Mads!” he called out.

“I’m on it,” Mads replied standing up and beginning to draw on his whiteboard.

“I want everything from the past…” Mycroft frowned, closing his eyes. Mentally he went through every attack on London from the past five years. He recalled comments from the terrorists about how far in advance they’d planned them, and how long MI5 had been receiving intelligence before they shut the attacks down. “We need surveillance information from the past two weeks for now. We may need to go further back, but two weeks is sufficient for now. Nadia, I need you to send everything to Erin’s laptop and she will communicate directly with the French authorities. Erin!”

She turned to look at him. “I heard you, sir," she said.

“Report directly to Rusell Toye,” Mycroft instructed her. “You speak French?”

“Yes, sir.”

Nadia shook her head. “Mycroft I’m in charge here.”

He stared at her. “Yes, you are in charge of this building and your employees. But you asked me here and nothing, and I mean _nothing_ , is picked up on without it passing my eyes. You put your staff where you want them, but I need Mads and Erin working for me.”

An hour passed, and then he received a call from the Germans. They too were expecting an attack the following morning. Mycroft picked up his phone and called Anthea. “Good evening,” she said, the sound of piano music coming down the phone. “Do you need me?”

“Not yet. I need Lucas Pavy here at Thames House. I want you to have your birthday meal. Goodness knows, you deserve it. But get Lucas here.”

“I will,” she replied and Mycroft sat down with his computer, scanning through what they had received already. There wasn’t a lot to go on, but they were going back through past communications and translation. Mycroft scanned through all of it, looking for links.

He set Lucas to work communicating with the Germans, while he kept a close eye on what was being sent with the French as well.

After two hours, he stood up and began to wander around, watching what work Mads had already done. The whiteboard was a jumbled mess of red and blue lines, some in dashes and others in dots, but Mycroft smiled as he stared down at it. “Remarkable,” he murmured, knowing it all meant something to Mads.

Mads grinned up at him. “I know it looks like I got a bit pen-happy,” he said. “But look how all the lines - and the suspects - all diverge here.” He pointed to a few sections on the whiteboard. “They’re using regular commuter traffic links. We’re looking at a lot of journeys going through Monument.”

Mycroft pointed to the board. “There’s a lot of pedestrian and commuter traffic through there.”

“I still have eight more suspects to sift through.”

Mycroft narrowed his eyes. “What is this clump of activity here?”

“Although there’s a lot of movement around Monument, they spend more time closer to Aldgate,” Mads explained.

Nadia joined him. “Aldgate a target?” she asked.

Mads nodded. “Perhaps.”

“Seems an unusual target,” she said.

“Shock value, perhaps?” Mycroft asked. “The element of surprise. Are there any suspected targets in France yet?”

Erin turned in her chair and shook her head. “Not yet,” she replied. “They’re looking at around 8am, French time though.”

“The Germans are saying 8am their time too,” Lucas called out. “No locations yet though.”

“France and Germany are both an hour ahead, so that would make it 7am our time.” Mycroft bit his lip, frowning. “So, if someone was planning a three-way co-ordinated terrorist attack, would they ensure they were all at the same time or hold one an hour later?” He frowned, tapping his fingers against the desk. “I suppose we assume they’re simultaneous. But of course, if you space them out then you induce hysteria in every country across Europe. Who knows who could be next?”

Mycroft sat back down at his computer. He knew the way he’d create a terrorist attack would be very different to the way everyone else did it… As the clock reached midnight, he went for a walk, standing in a deserted corridor and staring out of the window. But he wasn’t looking.

In his mind, he was stood in the centre of the Spirit Gallery at the Natural History Museum. It was a relatively new installation, with hundreds of jars containing various animals preserved in alcohol. But rather than creatures inside those century-old jars, there were messages and words in Mycroft’s mind. He was able to browse each shelf at his leisure, smashing irrelevant ones down onto the ground until he had a new way to study the information.

He could re-order the jars. Pluck out the important specimens and store them on the other side of the gallery.

“Mr Holmes,” someone called out from across the corridor and Mycroft pulled a face as he turned to look at them. “Mads has something.”

Mycroft checked his pocket watch, stunned to find he’d been stood out there for more than an hour. Mads presented him with a list of possible targets.

“It’s not Aldgate,” Mycroft muttered, thinking back to the pattern he’d created in his mind. “There are numbers in the communications…”

“Yes,” Nadia said, watching him. “They’re some sort of codes.”

“No, they’re not,” Mycroft murmured. “They’re instructions or… or.” He held his hand out and Lucas had the list of numbers in his hand within seconds. Mycroft stared down at the list.

Times. Dates. Train numbers. Bus routes. Too many numbers for any of those. Estimates. What numbers would you estimate?

“Mads, find out how many commuters you get at each of those targets," Mycroft said. 

“Commuters, sir?” he asked.

“Yes, commuters. These are estimates for how many people travel on specified times and dates. Friday morning, commuter traffic… well, you get far more people at Kings Cross than you do at Aldgate, don’t you? And then they settled on this figure.” He pointed to the number on the list. “They need to find similar areas in France and Germany, find the areas with the most commuter traffic. It might not necessarily be in the places you expect.”

“It’s going to take ages to sift through this,” Mads muttered. “I’ve got estimated passenger numbers for trains, but then I have to extrapolate how many will be moving between Kings Cross and St Pancras.”

“I’ll get more people on it,” Nadia said, leaving them.

By 4am, they’d narrowed down a target list in London, Paris and Berlin. Agents were getting into position. The work continued but Mycroft took a step back, allowing Nadia to take charge over the people on the ground.

With every hour that went by, the tension grew in the room. Mycroft sat in his chair, his laptop closed down, sipping a hot coffee and observing. He’d been critical of MI5 in the past few years, but he couldn’t criticise the work they’d done tonight.

It was 6am. Then 7am. And the agents didn’t pick up on anything at all, and Mycroft was listening to the exchanges, and people were hurriedly typing on their computers…

And then Mycroft’s laptop pinged. It was his programme updating him on news from around the world.

SUSPECTED TERRORIST ATTACK: LISBON.

Mycroft sat back in his chair. He pressed his lips together. As the morning went by, the number of casualties rose in Portugal. But not in London. Not in France. Not in Germany.

They’d missed a trick. Mycroft went over everything again, wondering what they could have done differently, but he couldn’t find anything. Eventually he left, getting the car back to Crusader House, where he slept for a few hours. He worked from home afterwards, sat in his office.

He had to admire the terrorists this time, he thought. They’d all misled them. God, he hated that. After a while, he moved to the living room. He leaned back against the settee, closing his eyes to assess every decision he’d made so he wouldn’t make any of the same mistakes again.

More than one hundred people had died because he’d missed something, and that was an unacceptable error. He looked up as the door opened, and he was so unbelievably pleased to see it was Greg stood there. Mycroft smiled, until he saw his thoroughly miserable expression.

“Oh, Greg. What happened?” he asked, watching as Greg joined him on the settee. He was clenching and unclenching his fists, and although Mycroft wanted nothing more than to hold him, he could sense his desire for space. Mycroft watched him, keeping his face as neutral as he could.

"We had a 14-year-old kid come in,” Greg finally said. “Killed his step-dad. He was violent and abusive for years and. Well. Kid came in to confess."

"I am sorry."

Greg shook his head. "Just a really shit day. He is such a good kid. Bright and polite and he wanted to be a mechanic. It just. It got to me, that's all."

"I understand. Has he got a lawyer?"

"Only on legal aid."

"I will see to it that he has a good one."

"You don't need to do that."

Mycroft nodded, already trying to make a mental list of everyone he went to university with and how many of those had gone on to be some of the best in their field. "I know. But I want to. Please. Allow me."

"Yeah. Please. Thank you."

"No need to thank me."

Mycroft watched as Greg stared down at his knees, the haunted look in his eyes still not subsiding. He looked back at Mycroft. "I missed you," he finally said.

"And I, you."

A small smile emerged on Greg’s face and he shuffled closer to Mycroft before kissing him. Mycroft sighed a little, touching his cheek and relaxing into it. Oh he’d missed him too. He was so wonderful.

Greg pressed their foreheads together, while Mycroft rubbed his thumb against his cheek, the stresses of the day beginning to wash away.

"Enough about me,” Greg said. “How was your day?"

“I worked with secret services in three separate European countries to prevent a co-ordinated terrorist attack.”

“Holy shit. That’s… that’s unbelievable.”

Mycroft paused, licking his lips. “There was an unexpected explosion in a fourth country," he murmured, and the words didn’t come easy because he was still furious that they’d missed something. "120 people died and counting.”

“Mycroft… God. I’m so…” Greg looked at him for a moment, his face full of sympathy. He dropped his head down to Mycroft’s chest, and took hold of his hand. Mycroft kissed his forehead, stretching his legs out so they could lie together along the sofa. "I'm sorry," Greg whispered. "I just barged in here and-"

Mycroft squeezed his hand. "Shh. No apologies. I'm glad you're here."

"Me too."

Mycroft wrapped an arm around him, keeping him close. He was utterly relaxed, his fears and concerns drifting away. He couldn’t even think about work anymore, because it felt irrelevant when he had Greg here. He’d seen men and women chain themselves to their work and become slaves to it. He’d seen it wear them down until they broke or simply faded away. He refused to let the same happen to him.

“Would you like a tea or a coffee?” Mycroft asked.

“Coffee would be good, thanks.”

Mycroft kissed his forehead and reluctantly slid out of their embrace, walking to the kitchen. He filled the kettle, pottering about and fetching everything they’d need. He smiled to himself as Greg joined him, resting his chest against his back and his chin on Mycroft’s shoulder.

He ignored the click of the kettle, just leaning back into Greg and finding peace in it.

“Sorry,” Greg murmured.

“What on earth for?”

“I’m being needy. It’s not a… a good thing really.”

Mycroft turned to him. “You’ve had a difficult day.”

“So have you.”

Mycroft hugged him around his neck, finding it came easy now, to initiate it. “It’s alright,” he soothed, as Greg’s arms wound around his waist. They held each other, offering respective comfort. He pulled back to study Greg’s face, and found it full of uncertainty. “It’s perfectly normal,” Mycroft told him. “To think things will be different after a month.”

Greg frowned. “What?”

“I still want to have sex with you, Greg.”

“Oh. I wasn’t. I don’t think I was worried about that.”

“No?”

Greg bit his lip. “Okay, I didn’t realise I was worried about that.”

Mycroft smiled and stroked Greg’s cheek. “Let me finish making these coffees and then you can tell me all about your Christmas.”

“Not much to tell,” Greg said.

“I very much doubt that. But I will fill you in on my month if you’d prefer. Oh, and talk to you about the bugging equipment.”

“Right, yeah, okay.”

Mycroft finished making their coffees, putting a rich tea biscuit on the saucers. Mycroft handed him one of the cups, smiling easily at him as they went back to the living room and sat back together on the settee.

“So, what have you been up to?” Greg asked.

“Numerous things. It’s expected the Kazakhstan president will head the Organisation For Security and Cooperation In Europe in 2009.”

“I have no idea what that is and why is that being decided now?”

“Because of oil. It’s a security-orientated organisation, preoccupied mostly with arms control, freedom of the press and human rights. Kazakhstan has oil, so Nazarbayev is likely to get the post. Belgium and the UK are behind his campaign. The United States is not.”

“Because we want cheap oil?” Greg asked.

“Any oil will do,” Mycroft replied. “How has your month been?”

“Not bad. Easily wrapped up cases, a few days in court, I did the night shift over Christmas. That was better than last year. Just watched sport on TV and was quiet really.”

Mycroft nodded and sipped from his coffee. This was wonderful. As though they’d never been apart. “How do you do it?”

“Do what?” Greg asked.

“Make it so quiet.”

“Funny that,” Greg murmured. “I had your brother asking me how you seemed so quiet when his brain was so loud.”

Mycroft frowned. “Is he okay?”

“The usual, I think. I haven’t seen much of him. I’ve done a couple of drug hunts at his flat. He’s ignoring you on purpose.”

“I know.”

Greg nodded and put his hand down on Mycroft’s thigh. Mycroft entwined their fingers, staring across the room to the fireplace. They put their cups down and Mycroft held him. It amazed him how they didn’t have to say a word. Greg seemed content just to sit with him, enjoying his company. Mycroft stroked his back and Greg relaxed against him.

If Mycroft had been told that in the space of 12 months he’d have something as wonderful as this, he’d have scoffed at the very thought of it. And yet here he was, content and happy.

And when he thought back, he never thought this was the kind of affection he’d ever feel again. Not after Jimmy. Nothing had been right after Jimmy, until this. And this was even more intense, deeper, more real. He wanted Greg to know it too, that what they had was right and good, and what Mycroft wanted more than anything in the world.

“Greg," he whispered.

Greg looked up at him, licking his lips. “Yeah?”

“I want you.”

Greg stared at him, swallowing, his pupils dilating. “You’ve got me,” he said, and Mycroft thought he knew that was true. He kissed him, slowly, holding this beautiful treasure in his arms.

It was a connection he’d never felt before. And it seemed as though nothing would ever be as good as having Greg’s lips on his. And that Crusader House would never be more than a place to rest his head unless Greg was there with him, brightening up the dark corners of Mycroft’s frozen soul, bringing him to life and bringing joy back into his world again.

That was what had been missing all those years, Mycroft realised. And he’d been so afraid that was a weakness. But how could it be? If he was happy in his personal life, then surely everything else would become better too?

And they kept kissing. It didn’t seem to matter that they’d been apart for so long, with oceans separating them.

They gazed at each other, Mycroft finding warmth in Greg’s expression. Mycroft stroked his jaw, holding him, admiring him. Greg licked Mycroft’s thumb, drawing it into his mouth. For the moment, Mycroft couldn’t imagine anything more erotic than that.

And then Mycroft couldn’t do anything but remove his thumb and kiss him hard. Overwhelming longing came over him, and a fierce desire to be with Greg, to take his hand and lead him to his bedroom.

“Alright?” Greg asked, concern in his dark eyes.

“I believe we should move to the bedroom,” Mycroft replied.

“Oh yeah,” Greg breathed out. “Yeah, that’s good. We should.”

They both got up, Mycroft straightening his clothes before leading the way to his bedroom. He wasn’t sure why this felt like such a big event in their lives. But somehow leading him to his most private space was a signifier that he was prepared to take the final step in their… relationship.

There it was, that word, meaningful and dangerous.

But they were stood staring at each other, bathing in the light from a single lamp. They were both smiling, both admiring. Greg had a look in his eyes like he’d never seen anything more attractive, and Mycroft found him mesmerising in return. He closed the gap between them, and they kissed, Greg beginning to guide them to the bed.

They took off their shoes, and Mycroft put them in their proper place beside the wall. Greg was sat on the edge of the bed, smiling up at him in that easy way of his. Mycroft got down onto the bed on his hands and knees, kissing Greg and easing him down onto his back.

Greg’s hands were travelling over his body, and he smelt of cocoa and cedar again. Mycroft began to dot kisses along his jaw and then down his neck. It had been far too long since they’d last been this close - one month was long enough.

Mycroft couldn’t imagine anything better as they began to kiss again, their tongues pressing together, teeth grazing against lips. He lifted Greg’s arms up above his head, holding him down, beautifully spread out before him. He kissed and sucked on Greg’s lips, smiling as Greg shuddered against him.

Greg pulled his jumper and t-shirt off, and God, he was stunning with the hair on his strong chest.

“Need your clothes off,” Greg urged. “Come on.” It was Greg who set about undressing him, leaving him to push off his waistcoat and then unfasten his shirt.

They lay there, half-naked from the waist up, smiling and watching one another.

“I want to draw it out,” Greg said. “I want to just… but I can’t.”

“I know,” Mycroft said, leaning down to kiss his cheek. They separated to pull off their respective jeans and trousers and underwear until they were lying down on their sides, openly and wonderfully naked. They kissed, pressing close, surrounded by heat and want.

Greg pushed Mycroft down onto his back and straddled his hips and Mycroft smiled up at him, touching him, caressing his fingers. “Do you ever think we’re too old for this?” Mycroft asked.

Greg laughed. “No, I don’t.” They kissed. “I think we’re the perfect age for this. Why else would we have fantastic sex?”

Mycroft took hold of Greg’s hips and Greg shifted a little, his arse pressing against Mycroft’s hard cock. Mycroft opened his drawer and took out his box with his condoms and lubricant.

“You keep them in a box?” Greg asked

“I certainly do.”

Greg grinned.“You’re ridiculous. You’re amazing.” He kissed his chin. “And I want you. So, please don’t take all night.”

Mycroft flicked open the lid of the lube, slicking his fingers in it. He smirked up at Greg. “I wasn’t planning to. Nonetheless, it is quite tempting to tie you up and make you wait.”

“You dare,” Greg replied, trying to glare, trying to narrow his eyes, but a smile threatened nonetheless.

“Are you threatening me, Greg?”

“Yeah, I guess I am,” he replied. Mycroft grabbed him and rolled them over, holding Greg’s wrists up above his head. Greg laughed, the beautiful sound making Mycroft’s whole body warm. “Oi!” Greg exclaimed and Mycroft proceeding to tickle his side, and Greg was laughing and squirming beneath him and Mycroft laughed with him.

Mycroft eventually relented, and they kissed through smiles and laughter. Mycroft had to slick his fingers again and Greg spread his legs for him. Mycroft stared down at him. Greg’s eyes had darkened again now, the head of his cock wet with precome.

“C’mon,” Greg whispered to him. “Please, I can’t keep waiting.”

“Impatient,” Mycroft said.

“Like you’re not.”

Mycroft positioned himself between his legs, smiling and almost shaking his head at how he’d got so lucky. He eased his finger inside, and Greg seemed to accept it easily. Mycroft moved his finger and Greg rolled his hips with him. His lips were parted, cheeks flushed, as he breathed out a ‘yeah’.

Mycroft pressed in a second finger and the sound Greg made was like nothing he’d ever heard. A desperate, throaty groan, and cry of want and need. Mycroft curled his fingers to brush against Greg’s prostate. “Yeah, got it,” Greg gasped out.

“I know.” Mycroft nipped his bottom lip, pulling at it a little.

“Got me all figured out, right?” Greg grinned. Mycroft only curled his fingers again in response. “Okay, yeah, definitely have. God, yeah.”

Mycroft continued to stretch the tight muscle, his cock twitching. “C’mon,” Greg groaned, rising to meet the thrusts of Mycroft’s fingers inside him. He curled his fingers in the pillows above his head, his whole body stretched out, every muscle pulled tort. “I’m ready. I’m so bloody ready, it’s not funny or fair to keep doing this to me.”

Mycroft laughed and took his fingers out. But seconds later, Greg was manhandling him and pushing him down onto his back, tearing open the condom packet. Mycroft laughed and stroked his fingers through his hair while Greg began to kiss down his body, paying special attention to his scars.

Greg rolled the condom on Mycroft’s cock, using his mouth to ease it down, and that was a party trick Mycroft wasn’t expecting. He could only watch him in amazement, breathing hard. Greg pushed the rest of the condom down with his fingers before covering it in lube. Mycroft could only gasp and push up into his hand, staring up at him.

He was straddling Mycroft’s hips, and soon he was pushing down on Mycroft’s cock, taking it inside him inch by inch. Mycroft held his hips, stroking them, not pushing up until Greg sunk down completely.

Greg’s eyes fell closed and Mycroft could only stare, catching his breath. He flattened his hands down on the bed and pushed himself up so he was sat up, chest to chest with with him. They kissed, Greg beginning to move.

Mycroft got lost in his brown eyes, holding him, feeling overcome by the love he had for him. They were swept up in the moment and the utter perfection of being together.

Nothing was wrong in the world when Mycroft was with him, when they kissed, when Mycroft touched him and felt him all over. He held tightly onto Greg as he rolled him onto his back, Greg lifting one leg so his calf rested on Mycroft’s shoulder while the other wrapped around his waist.

And Greg cried out as Mycroft thrust inside him. The kisses became more frenzied, more needy, just _more_. There could have been fireworks outside and a steel band and a choral choir, and Mycroft would have heard none of it, so focused was he on Greg. He thrust hard and fast into him, capturing his deep guttural moans with his mouth.

He wrapped his hand around Greg’s cock, finding him so close to release. It only took a few strokes and then Greg was arching up, his body trembling, spilling between their stomachs. His orgasm brought Mycroft close, and one thrust later, he too was letting go, squeezing his eyes shut, going still with the intensity of it.

Mycroft allowed himself to collapse onto Greg, ignoring how Greg’s come smeared between their bodies. He tried to catch his breath, his forehead nestled against Greg’s neck. Greg’s arms were wrapped around his hot body, securing him there.

He lifted his head and caught Greg’s mouth in a kiss. There was something unsettled in Greg’s smile, even when it reached his eyes and Mycroft didn’t know why or what had caused it. Mycroft’s cock slid from his tight heat and he sat up, frowning. “I will be back in a moment,” he said. He collected his dressing gown and pressed a soft kiss to Greg’s lip before leaving.

He padded into the en-suite, tying the cord around his waist. He cleaned himself up, patting his face down with a cool flannel. He went back into his now-empty bedroom and pulled the red sheets back, hanging his dressing gown up and sliding under the covers. It hadn’t been long since he was last in bed, resting and napping. But his bones were far too slack to allow him to do anything but sleep now. His body cried out for rest. He fluffed his pillows and lay down on his back.

Greg came back in, dressed in Mycroft’s pyjama bottoms as though they were his own. Mycroft watched as he grabbed his boxers, beginning to re-dress.

“Stay, Greg,” Mycroft said, resolved.

Greg wouldn’t look at him, just frozen to the spot. “You sure?”

“If you would like to stay, then yes, I’m sure.”

Greg didn’t say anything for a few moments, and Mycroft began to wonder if Greg wasn’t as committed to all of this as he was. He thought perhaps he’d got it all wrong.

Then Greg dropped his boxers down onto the floor and strolled naked across the room. Mycroft pulled back a corner of the covers, and opened his arms to him and Greg put his head on Mycroft’s chest.

Mycroft had always had a large bed. He liked to have the space to move around on hot summer days, where he could seek the coolest part of the mattress. Mostly, though, he slept on one pillow, and seemed to wake up in the same place every day. And despite the extra body beside him, the bed did not feel any smaller.

He kissed the top of Greg’s head, stroking the back of his neck with his thumb.

“We need to talk about the bug,” Greg murmured.

Mycroft frowned. “You’re right. We do,” he replied, and he winced at those words, wishing he could brush it all under the carpet.

“What’s going on?”

“It is as I suspected. I am being targeted, over what I’m not sure," he added, lying to protect him from it all. "And you are being used to get to me.”

Greg sighed. “They probably heard all our conversations.”

“Quite a few of them, yes.”

“Does this-”

“-It doesn’t change a thing,” Mycroft said firmly.

Greg nodded. “I don’t need to know anything else. I’m fine with that.” Mycroft nodded and yawned, covering his mouth with his hand. “Y’sure you want me to stay?” Greg asked, looking at him.

Mycroft looked down at him with a soft, fond smile. “More than anything,” he said, and truer words had never been said. They shared a tender kiss before Greg moved away to lie down on his back. Mycroft sat up, looking down at him.

“This mattress is the single most comfortable thing I’ve ever felt. Lie down, Mycroft.”

Mycroft leaned over to turn the lamp off, and shuffled down under the sheets. He lay on his side, listening to Greg’s breathing. Tension came over him. It had been so long since he’d shared the bed with another person, and suddenly he was over-analysing his own movements, wondering if he should lie close to him, or if they should stay apart.

He knew they were both lying awake, suddenly unable to move, unable to speak. But Mycroft longed for connection and he slid closer, resting his cheek against Greg’s shoulder. He extended his arm over Greg’s chest, and Greg’s hand came to rest on his forearm.

Mycroft smiled to himself through the darkness, trying to keep his eyes open so he could enjoy it for as long as possible. He knew the moment Greg fell asleep, because his breathing got deeper. Mycroft took one long breath, savouring it all, trying to collect his memories together so that in times of darkness, he could come back to this and treasure it forever.

Mycroft smiled. Greg was making small snoring sounds. It was endearing more than annoying, and Mycroft supposed it had to be love for him to be able to tolerate it all so easily.

And it was. It was love.

He felt those three words in his mouth. He’d said all three words before, of course he had, but never in that order, never aloud to a human being. He kissed Greg’s arm, but he didn’t stir. “Greg?” he whispered, but there was no response, not even a sound.

He swallowed anyway, squeezing his eyes shut. “I love you,” he whispered, testing the words for the first time. There was no reply. He hadn’t expected, or even wanted, one. But he’d said it. Smiling to himself, he let himself relax and then fall asleep. 


	30. Evolution

**January 2007.**

**Location: Crusader House, Pall Mall, London.**

His room felt warmer than normal. That was the first thing he noticed. The second was that there was another warm body beside his. There was a gap between them. They weren’t pressed close together. But Mycroft could hear his breathing and soft snores. He shuffled closer, until he could feel the heat from Greg’s body against his.

He smiled to himself and closed his eyes, leaning forward until his chest pressed against Greg’s back. He wrapped an arm around him, letting out a content sigh before drifting off to sleep again.

The next time he woke, Greg was leaning off the bed to check his phone. Mycroft tightened his hold on him, pulling him close again. “Go back to sleep, Greg,” he whispered, never so delighted about the prospect of a lie-in than he was at that moment.

He was awake enough now to stroke Greg’s chest, to run his fingers through the hair. He kissed the back of Greg’s neck. “Go go sleep, Mycroft,” came the amused reply.

“Yes,” he replied, but he was enraptured in him, unwilling to go to sleep. He wanted to savour this. And he couldn’t do that if he was fast asleep.

Greg turned around in his arms, their lips finally pressing together in a soft kiss. Mycroft rolled onto his back, allowing Greg to curl up to him, resting his head on his chest.

Settled and satisfied, he spent a while listening as Greg fell asleep again, and soon he followed.

It seemed as though they woke in tandem, wrapped up in each other. Mycroft murmured a good morning greeting, sleepily taking a firmer hold of the man in his arms and kissing his forehead. “Did you sleep well?” he asked.

“Like a baby. You?”

Mycroft smiled at the corner of his mouth. “Yes, it was a good night.” He took hold of Greg’s hand, rubbing his thumb against the knuckles. He glanced at the time. It was long past when Greg should have gone to work. “You’re not working today.”

“Nope.”

“Neither am I. How would you like to spend the day?”

A small silence followed, Greg squeezing Mycroft’s hand and turning his head to kiss his chest and relax against him. Mycroft gazed down at him, smiling.

“I haven’t really thought about it,” Greg finally said.

“Stay here for a while then. And perhaps a shower?”

“At the same time, yeah?”

Mycroft smiled, pressing a gentle kiss to his head. “As though you read my mind. And then breakfast. A trip to your flat so you may pick up some clothes and then a day in London, concluding with lunch and dinner. How does that suit you?”

Greg stared up at him with a delighted smile. “Are you serious?”

“I’m serious.”

Greg kissed him. “Then yeah. That all sounds great.”

“Excellent. However, I intend to make the most of this for a while.”

Greg grinned, lying back down to rest his head on Mycroft’s chest. Mycroft stroked his hand, pulling the covers up a little higher. He closed his eyes again, their fingers entwining on his chest. Mentally, he began to consider his schedule for the rest of the week and whether he may be able to find time to fit in another morning where he woke up with Greg still in his bed.

“What do you want to do in London?” Greg asked.

“I’m not sure. Are there any particular places you would like to visit? Any tourist attractions you’ve never been to?”

Greg shook his head. “Where’s your favourite place in London?”

Mycroft smiled, one place coming to mind in an instant. “The Natural History Museum.”

“I’ve never been. What’s so great about it?”

“It’s full of dinosaurs and fossils. And Archaeopteryx.”

“Arch what?” Greg asked. “Actually, don’t tell me. You can show it to me later.”

“You want to go?” Mycroft asked, looking at him. He could scarcely imagine taking someone to the museum. Tristan was an academic, and certainly the kind of man to go to museums. They'd met at the British History Museum, of all places. It was a social evening to open a new exhibit, with wine. Mycroft couldn’t recall who he’d been invited by, but Tristan had been… appealing. But Tristan wasn’t a fan of the Natural History Museum. He preferred his history to be about people, not creatures. And Jimmy… well a museum was Jimmy’s idea of the seven hells.

“Yeah, I do,” Greg told him. “I want to see the place that’s just made your face look like that.”

“You may find it dull.”

“I won’t. You can explain what everything is to me. I really like listening to you explain things.”

Mycroft chuckled. “You may be the only one.”

“That’s fine with me.”

Mycroft kissed his hair before reaching over to take hold of his phone. He narrowed his eyes as he read his emails. There was nothing urgent there, just reams of useless messages from people who seemed to have lost the ability to think for themselves. He got up to use the bathroom.

He collected his selection of newspapers as he reached the front door, browsing the headlines before dropping them all on the kitchen table. He made them each a coffee and put them on the tray with his copy of The Times.

They lay down together in bed, browsing the stories. Then Greg curled up in his arms as Mycroft began to do the crossword. He finished the majority of it, but Greg added a few of his own words too.

They showered together. They kissed under the warm water, before Mycroft began to wash Greg’s hair. Greg groaned at the touch, and Mycroft was mesmerised by the muscles on his back, his backside, his strong thighs. He was as exquisite as anything Mycroft had known, and all his to touch and kiss and caress.

Greg washed the shampoo out of his hair, leaning back and closing his eyes. Mycroft swallowed as he watched him. His cock was half hard, the water running down his front.

“C’mon,” Greg said. “Your turn.”

Mycroft did as he was asked, bracing his hands against the cool tiles. He closed his eyes as Greg’s hands began to roam through his wet hair, massaging his head. He let out a soft sigh, tilting his head back into his touch.

Greg stepped back and Mycroft washed the shampoo out. He reached out and took hold of Greg’s hip, drawing him closer. Their lips met in a lazy kiss. Greg’s hands were on Mycroft’s shoulders and slid down his arms. Mycroft ran his fingers against Greg’s groin, feeling him shudder in response and gasp into his mouth.

Mycroft curled his fingers around his hot, hard cock, holding onto his body firmly as he began to stroke him. He rubbed his thumb against the tip and Greg moaned, wrapping his own hand around Mycroft’s cock.

The kisses got deeper, tongue sliding against tongue. They began to breath less evenly. Mycroft arched into Greg’s hand, taking a step back so he leaned against the wall. He sped up the movements of his own hand, savouring Greg’s groans against his lips.

His knees began to shake as he got close, Greg’s head dropping onto his shoulder. He twisted his wrist a little and Greg came undone, spilling over Mycroft’s hand. Greg didn’t stop moving his hand, and his thumb rubbed against the wet tip of Mycroft’s cock. And that was enough to tip him over the edge, and he bit down hard on his lip as he came.

They shared a kiss, each washing themselves under the shower. Mycroft wordlessly handed him the shower gel. He closed his eyes as Greg’s hands ran over his body, rubbing into his relaxed muscles.

His fingers had wrinkled by the time he got out, patting himself dry, unapologetically nude while Greg watched him. What on earth was there to hide now?

He wandered back to his room to get dressed, opening his wardrobe and surveying his options.

“What were you thinking for breakfast?” Greg asked from behind him.

“There are some croissants in the cupboard.”

“I’ll sort it while you get dressed.”

Mycroft opened his chest of drawers and pulled some black underwear on, finding his black socks next. He pulled them on, the right foot then the left. It was his shirt next. A crisp white one, perfectly ironed. He watched himself in the mirror as he fastened the buttons, reaching up to adjust his damp hair.

Then his trousers, then a tie. He paused as he studied them. He wanted something befitting the occasion, and that meant something more casual. He went for a plain, royal blue tie in the end, spruced up with a plain silver tie pin. He put on his cufflinks, his waistcoat, his trousers then his jacket.

After combing his hair and making the bed, he joined Greg in the kitchen, the smell of croissants already wafting through the air. Greg was taking some mugs out when Mycroft pressed his chest to his back, wrapping his arms around his middle.

He kissed along his neck, watching as Greg poured their coffees, finally doing it the way Mycroft liked.

Appreciative, Mycroft carried the mugs over to the table and sat down with Greg across from him, beginning to butter his croissants. “This is wonderful,” he said.

“So, how we getting to the museum then?” Greg asked.

“I thought we’d take the car.”

“I didn’t think you were a tube kind of person, I admit,” Greg laughed.

“I haven’t taken the tube in 10 years.”

“You’re lucky. Wish I could say the same.”

“You don’t avoid it?” Mycroft asked.

“Well. Yeah, a bit, actually. I went with my dad when I had my broken wrist. It wasn’t too busy. When I went to the football with Sam, we went early and left late. I can’t stand it when it’s packed and I just…”

“Can’t breathe,” Mycroft finished for him.

Greg nodded. “I deal with my claustrophobia. If I have to go on the tube, then so be it.”

“You’re braver than I am,” Mycroft murmured. “I can’t go on an aeroplane without taking some form of medication.”

“Really?”

Mycroft nodded. “I cope through short-haul flights, or ones where I need to catch a connecting flight.”

“What’s your idea of coping?”

Mycroft smiled. “Only Anthea could accurately assess whether I cope or not,” he admitted. “I tend to think I don’t have a choice.”

“Yeah. I’m an idiot, and I still get in the lift sometimes. It’s a challenge.”

“I don’t even bother with that anymore, most of the time.” He pulled his phone out of his pocket, checking the most recent messages. He still wasn’t needed. Good.

Greg got up and cleared his plate away, dropping a kiss down on the top of Mycroft’s head. “I’m going to put some clothes on, then I’m ready to go when you are.”

They shared a soft kiss. “I am ready as soon as you are,” Mycroft told him.

Greg left him to it, and Mycroft washed up their crockery. He wandered into the living room and put his coat on, collecting Greg’s in the process. He felt the lining for any sign of a bug, but found nothing.

They got the car to Petty France first so Greg could get changed. Mycroft contacted Anthea to say he was on his way out, and out of contact besides an absolute emergency.

“Where are we going, sir?” Malcolm asked.

“The Natural History Museum, please. I expect we’ll be a couple of hours.”

“Of course, not a problem.”

Mycroft looked up as Greg got in the car and took hold of his hand as they began to drive.

“Did your wife have a nice birthday?” Mycroft asked Malcolm.

“Yes, very nice, thank you. We went to the Argentinean restaurant you recommended, and we had a very nice meal.”

“Are your children well?”

“Oldest is doing her GCSEs in the summer. She can run rings around me with her maths. She’s not so great at English.”

“What’s the problem?”

“She’s got all the basics. Grammar, punctuation and so on. It’s the interpretation that bothers her.”

Mycroft nodded. “I’m sure life - and English lessons - would be far simpler if only we all spoke plainly rather than in metaphors and double meanings.”

“I wouldn’t know, sir.”

Mycroft smiled. “If you dealt with politicians all day, you would. They’re experts at making people feel as though they answered a question, without ever saying a word of substance. It’s quite a talent.”

The large, gold-bricked building came into view. Almost 30 years since he had first seen it and he still had butterflies in his stomach. There was a little anxiety there too, wondering what may have changed, because the museum had evolved a lot in 30 years. Mostly for the better though, since it had to keep changing to keep visitor numbers up.

Mycroft held his umbrella up for them as they walked inside. The Grand Hall still filled him with awe, with its imposing staircases and high [ceiling](http://static2.newsletter.dealchecker.co.uk/blog/2013/march/sleepover_dino.jpg).

And there, in the centre, Mycroft’s favourite thing in the world. Greg’s eyes widened in surprise, and he let out a delighted smile.

“Meet Dippy,” Mycroft said, leading him towards the dinosaur, feeling as he imagined a proud parent must feel. “He is a skeleton cast, unveiled in 1905.”

“Huge.”

Mycroft stared up at it. He would never know why this held the same wonder for him, yet wonder he had. “When I was a child, my father brought me here. I must have been eight or nine at the time. Dippy was the first thing I saw, the same as every visitor. I sat here for a good half an hour, on the floor, just here.” He touched Greg’s lower back and led him beneath Dippy’s neck. “I sat here, staring at him, until my father told me there was more to see. I could have spent all day with Dippy.”

“He must have been massive to you.”

“It was the most extraordinary thing I’d ever seen. I read about dinosaurs before we came here, but I didn’t anticipate the size. Of course, the shape of Dippy has changed over the years as the understanding of dinosaurs has improved. In the 1960s, the neck was raised to a horizontal position. It was only in 1993 that the tail was repositioned to curve over visitors’ heads.”

“See. I’m loving this trip already. You’re the best tour guide in the world.”

They went to the café first to put their coats in the cloakroom. Greg admired the stuffed panda in one of the display cabinets, before Mycroft led him back through to Dippy. It was thrilling to be able to share this with someone else.

And judging by the way Greg was staring up at the ceiling and looking at Dippy, the place wasn’t boring to him at all. Relieved, Mycroft led him to the dinosaurs - because where else would they go first? It was the main attraction.

There were the dinosaurs in their glass cases, and those above their heads. Mycroft began to lead him round, glad they’d come on a quiet day. Facts and figures ran through his mind, and he was surprised at just how much he remembered.

“You seem to love it,” Greg commented.

“Love what?” Mycroft asked.

“This. All of this. I’ve never seen you so… alive with anything before.”

“This building takes me back to being a child,” he said.

“Easier times, yeah?” Greg asked.

Mycroft nodded. “I suppose so.” They stopped in front of a Triceratops. Its frill and horns had always impressed him. Somehow the armour had grown to be his favourite thing about it. This was his childhood, right here. This had been his escape.

His grandfather, on his mother’s side, had lived with his partner in London. Mycroft used to take the train and stay with them for a few days, and when he was old enough, he’d take trips to the museum by himself.

“I have never been here with Sherlock.”

Greg glanced at him. “No?”

Mycroft put his hands down on the barrier, leaning against it. “Sherlock was a difficult child. He struggled with his mind in a way I never did. Where I was quiet he was loud and occasionally aggressive. He found it difficult to control the amount of data streaming through his head. I used to talk to him about dinosaurs. It calmed him. We never came here together. I’m glad of that.”

Greg put one hand down on the barrier, placing his little finger over Mycroft’s. “It’s your alone place.”

Mycroft nodded. “This is where I store my thoughts.”

“Your own mind palace,” Greg said.

“I suppose you could call it that. It’s the quietest place I’ve ever known. This is my favourite place in the world.”

“Thank you for sharing it with me,” Greg said softly.

Mycroft smiled a bit. “Follow me. There is a moving tyrannosaurs rex through here.”

He loved every step he took in this building. Even when he knew what he was going to see next, he still felt a flutter of excitement. He wrapped his arm around Greg’s waist as they walked, leading him from miraculous object to miraculous object.

“What do you like about it?” Greg asked as they studied one of the dinosaurs. “I mean. It’s… pretty amazing to look at it.”

“I like the age of them. The idea that they lived so many millions of years ago, on this earth, on the same ground we walk on. And it’s… uncomplicated. Hunt, eat, live. There’s nothing more to it than that.”

“Or the fact that they’re bloody massive.”

Mycroft laughed. “Yes, their size is part of it too. Although, I was interested in dinosaurs even before I ever saw one up close. I’ve never known why I was so intrigued by them.”

Greg smiled and they studied the map together, beginning to walk out to the next exhibit. The fossilised marine reptiles always brought back fond memories of his childhood.

“Didn’t you ever want to be a scientist?” Greg asked him.

Mycroft shook his head. “I liked the romanticism of it. I think I would have lost the love of it if I studied it every day.”

The museum also housed an impressive collection of taxidermy. “This collection is only a fraction of what they have upstairs,” Mycroft explained as they walked through.

Greg grinned at him, stopping by the glass to come face to face with a lion. A wide smile broke out over Mycroft’s face as he watched him, stepping beside him and peering in. “Prefer them living, myself,” Greg said.

“Unfortunately, I prefer looking at extinct animals,” Mycroft replied, amused.

Greg laughed and they began walking down between the glass cabinets. “I like it here,” he said, their arms brushing together. “I’ve never really done anything like this before.”

“Never?”

“It’s the kind of place parents take their kids, isn’t it?”

“You had parents later in life,” Mycroft said carefully.

“Yeah. Yeah, I know I did. We just didn’t do this. My mum took me to football. Dad preferred… I dunno what dad preferred.”

Mycroft nodded. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have-”

“-No. No, it’s fine.” Greg glanced at him, brushing the backs of his fingers against Mycroft’s hand.

When they visited the treasures collection, with Charles Darwin’s pigeons and Alfred Russel Wallace’s insects and Archaeopteryx, Mycroft felt more comfortable than he ever felt. It was like going home, to a special, wonderful place.

He could see in Greg’s eyes that he wasn’t in awe of it. But there was something in the way he smiled, in the way he patiently waited beside Mycroft as he gazed at each specimen, that Mycroft knew he wasn’t bored. They held hands, fingers entwined, like two people who couldn’t possibly be closer. Like they belonged together.

Mycroft smiled at him and they walked back out so they stood by the balcony, overlooking the main hall.

“Thank you,” Greg murmured. “I’ve really enjoyed this.”

“Thank you for letting me show you.”

“And so your mind… palace thing. Do you just wander around in your head and find the information you need?”

“Of course,” Mycroft said. “It isn’t the only place. I have separate buildings for separate items I need to recall, but the Natural History Museum is my favourite. I’ve left the things I need to remember about you in the same room as Archaeopteryx.”

“Thank you,” Greg said.

Mycroft nodded to him and leaned against the balustrade. “I think what’s so magnificent about this building is the little features.” He pointed to the arches. “See the little monkeys carved into it?”

Greg followed the line of Mycroft’s finger. “Yeah.” He grinned. “That’s amazing.”

“There are 78 in total.” Mycroft smiled. “I wish I could say I got that information from the guidebook.”

“You counted,” Greg grinned at him.

“I’m ashamed to say I did.”

They both laughed and Greg shook his head. “I wish I could say I was surprised, but I’m not.”

Mycroft smiled at him. “Come downstairs,” he said, brushing his hand against Greg’s back and guiding him back downstairs. He led him through to the coelacanth. “It’s amazes me,” he said softly, taking hold of Greg’s hand again. “That this creature was alive the whole time, and no one knew because they thought it was extinct.”

Greg squeezed his hand. “Did it just know how to hide?”

Mycroft smiled a little. “Where they were living in Kenya and Madagascar and Tanzania… people there knew they existed. But everyone in the scientific world thought they were extinct for 66million years.”

“The oceans are pretty big. There’s a lot of room to hide there.”

Mycroft glanced at him and smiled. “There is. Unfortunately, it would have been better off if no one had re-discovered it. It gets caught up as a by-product of fishing and… discarded.”

“Humans are pretty shit for the environment. That’s what I’ve learnt today.”

“Humans take what they want, and mostly, they think they have a right to it all. It’s what we’ve always done, ever since we evolved. Does a coelacanth matter? It’s hardly changed in hundreds of millions of years. It didn’t need to evolve. Now it would probably benefit from swimming faster or being less attracted to nets.”

“I don’t think it’s attracted to nets.”

Mycroft nodded. “You understand my point though.”

“Yeah. It’s got to evolve or they’ll all disappear.”

“I don’t know why it bothers me. I’m not particularly sentimental about the elephant or the rhino or the panda. I can see why it’s distressing that they’re killed for nothing more than their horns or their fur. I do think they should be preserved and that they deserve to live. And yet, the idea of this ugly, prehistoric fish dying out affects me somehow. It’s a survivor, Greg. That’s 66million years at least of being so good, so well-adapted, that they didn’t have to change. And now they’re at risk of becoming extinct, and not even because they make good food, because quite frankly, I believe they taste appalling.”

Greg laughed, squeezing Mycroft’s hand. He glanced around the hall. “No one knows what killed the dinosaurs. But they didn’t make it. But… but tortoises made it, didn’t they?”

Mycroft nodded. “Nothing can stay the same, Greg. The world changes, and if you don’t keep up you… you simply disappear.”

Greg kissed his cheek. “You alright?”

“Yes, I’m fine. Just that I’d rather not be alive when the coelacanth becomes extinct.”

“Well, on that happy note…”

Mycroft laughed. “Let’s go and get our coats.”

They collected their coats and got into the car, driving to a pub. Mycroft bought them each a drink.

“You should tell Sherlock how you built a mind palace thing, you know?” Greg said after they’d sat down. “He’d really benefit from it.”

“I’ve tried before. But you know Sherlock. Trying to convince him to do something good for himself is completely impossible.”

“Yeah, I know.” Greg looked down at the menu. “I’m going to have the steak and kidney pie. What do you want?”

“I’ll have the chicken and leak, I think.” Greg stood and Mycroft held his arm out. “Let me.”

“No, come on,” Greg said. “I can afford this place. You can pay for our next posh night out.”

Mycroft laughed and watched him walk to the bar. He checked his phone. They’d found more radioactive elements around London. Mycroft pursed his lips. Greg joined him again, smiling.

“I have a question,” Greg said. “Which country has the most wild camels?”

Mycroft tilted his head. “I don’t understand why you’re asking.”

“It’s my useless fact of the day.”

Mycroft laughed. “I don’t know, Greg, which country has the most wild camels?”

“Australia.”

Mycroft raised his eyebrows. “And why have you got a useless fact of the day?”

“I’ve started having them emailed to me.”

“Why?”

“Well, y’know. For if you start getting bored of me rabbiting on about work, I can come up with something interesting to say.”

Mycroft smiled. “Greg, I find you constantly fascinating.”

“And hopefully you will in the future with Greg’s useless facts of the day.”

Mycroft narrowed his eyes, wondering what he’d done so wrong. He hadn’t wanted Greg to feel intimidated by the museum or Mycroft’s intelligence, which was greater, yes, but he thought Greg had a wonderful mind. “Greg, what’s the problem?”

Greg shook his head. “Nothing. I don’t really know where that came from. Ignore me.”

“I find we have very pleasant conversations. You can talk about anything you want. Football, work, your life.” Mycroft bit his lip. “Have you been holding it back?”

Greg shrugged. “A bit. Maybe. Not on purpose. But you don’t exactly want to listen to me chat about football.”

Mycroft frowned. “Don’t I?”

“Well, do you?”

Mycroft touched his arm, holding his eyes. “If I gave you any reason to think I wasn’t interested in what you have to say then I apologise.”

“No, no, it’s nothing like that. I’m just a bit boring compared to you. I mean I could listen to you talk all day.”

“I’d much prefer it if you were talking with me.”

Greg rested his fingers over Mycroft’s. “I’m being an idiot.”

“Yes.”

Greg laughed. “Cheers, thanks for that.”

Mycroft quirked a smile. “A charming idiot. Does that help?”

“Maybe a bit.”

“I’d enjoy listening to you talk about anything you choose to. With you, I think I can talk about work but also everything else as well. Talk to me about football, Greg.”

Greg laughed. “I don’t really want to talk about football.”

Mycroft smiled playfully. “Well, now you really are being an idiot. I don’t allow football discussions very often.”

Greg grinned. “Your idiot though, right?” Mycroft stared across at him, not sure how to answer that. Did Greg really not know? And then Greg was speaking again. “So, Australia and camels, the reason for that is-“

“-Yes, Greg.”

Greg swallowed. “Yes, what?”

“I know about the camels.”

“Oh. Right. Yeah, course you do,” Greg muttered.

Mycroft leaned back in his seat. He’d got this really horribly wrong. “No, that wasn’t…” He rubbed his head. “Just give me a moment.”

He looked up as the food was brought over. Did Greg not think they were together? Hadn’t he realised how committed Mycroft was? But of course he hadn’t. How could he? “Greg, being half of a partnership is-”

Greg held his hand up. “It’s fine. I get it. Don’t worry. I shouldn’t have said it like that, it was stupid. You’re right, I’m am idiot.”

“I am afraid of hurting you.”

Greg shook his head. “Don’t be. I’m fine.”

“You’re not fine right now.”

“Great observation,” Greg muttered.

Mycroft tilted his head. “Why are we fighting?”

“Because we’re practically a couple, damn it, and whether you like it or not and that’s what couples do.”

Mycroft raised his eyebrows. “Very well,” he said.

“Very well?”

“Very well. We’re a couple and that’s what couples do. Although I wouldn’t mind if we put an end to this rather pointless argument very soon.”

“You what?”

Mycroft sighed. “What now, Greg?”

“You just said we’re a couple.”

“Yes, I believe I did. You said we were practically a couple, but I feel my description of actually being a couple was far more accurate.”

“Y’what?”

“Well, is there anything other couples do which we’re not doing? Because if there is then please let me know and I’ll remedy that situation.”

Greg started to smile. “We’re a couple?”

Mycroft blinked. “Are we not?”

“I guess we are.”

“Excellent. Greg are you going to eat?”

Greg laughed. “Why don’t you start before me for a change?”

“I’m creating a relationship tradition. That’s what people do, isn’t it?”

Greg leaned across and touched his cheek. “I don’t know.”

Mycroft smiled. “Nor do I. Please eat now.”

Greg laughed and began to eat. “How long have we even been in a relationship for?”

“Months. I’m fairly sure it’s been months.”

“You could have told me, you know.”

Mycroft frowned. “I thought it went without saying.”

Greg laughed. “No, Mycroft, it doesn’t.”

Ah. That was perhaps a mistake, in hindsight. “Very well. Greg, will you be in a relationship with me?”

Greg grinned. “Hm. Let me think about that.”

Mycroft raised his eyebrows. “You are a pain.”

“I know.”

They laughed and began to eat their lunch. Greg looked at him and laughed again. “What?” Mycroft asked, sipping his drink.

“Just you. You’re ridiculous, I hope you know that.”

“You do see fit to tell me on occasion.”

“Did you really think we were together?”

Mycroft nodded. “I genuinely thought you knew. I’m sorry.”

Greg smiled. “It’s alright. No worries. We’re sorted now.”

“This is good pie.”

Greg grinned. “Yeah, it’s good pie,” he agreed. Mycroft smiled at him and they finished their food. Mycroft checked his emails on the way back to Crusader House. MI6 had lost one of their key radiation suspects. Mycroft could only hope his team could take charge of it and deal with it without relying on him.

They walked up to the stairs to the flat, and Mycroft turned to Greg as he closed the door. He touched his shoulder and guided him into a soft kiss. Greg hummed in response, smiling at him as they parted. Mycroft took his hand and brought him to the settee. He kicked his shoes off and lay down, bringing Greg on top of him.

He wrapped his arms around his neck, bringing one hand up to rest on the back of his head. Greg met him in a kiss, their lips caressing.

“Mmm,” Greg let out between kisses, beginning to deepen it, pressing his tongue into Mycroft’s mouth. Mycroft took the opportunity to run his hands over his body, over his back and down to his backside.

“Oh,” Mycroft breathed out, and Greg was grinning at him, lowering his head to kiss him again. Mycroft’s phone rang. Mycroft let out a frustrated sigh and pulled his phone out while Greg sat up.

“What?” he snapped.

“No luck tracking down the Ukrainian radiation agent,” Hugh Seagroves told him.

“Oh good lord, is this office run by incompetents?” He stood up and began to walk to his office. “It’s my day off.”

“You’re not at the office?”

“No, actually. What happened? I’m spending the day with my better half.” He shut the door to his office and sat down in his chair, frowning.

“It shouldn’t take long to find him, but we need access to your resources.”

“And in the mean time, Russian and Ukrainian secret service agents are leaving a trial of polonium around London.”

“Mycroft-”

“-Fine. But I’m not dedicating my whole day to it.” He hung up and shook his head. He walked out to the living room and asked Greg to order some takeaways. He gave him a soft kiss before he went, leaving Greg in his home, a content smile on his face as he travelled to his office.


	31. Sacrifices

**January 2007.**

**Location: Coeur de Lion Offices, Mayfair, London.**

He hadn’t been at the office long when Greg called him. Mycroft frowned down at his phone. Greg knew he wasn’t going to be more than a few hours, and Mycroft could only assume something had happened.

“Greg. What’s wrong?” he asked as he answered the call.

“Sherlock,” Greg said, his voice tense, a hint of panic creeping into it. Mycroft’s heart sunk. “He. Heroin and overdosed and. I’m getting in the ambulance with him now, y’just need to…”

Mycroft stood up, collecting his coat. “I’m on my way.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I’m on my way.” He pulled his coat on and stormed out of his office. He went into Anthea’s office. “Sherlock’s in hospital. Can you please collect those reports I’m working on and bring them to my office? And I need those investment papers for RL6 as well. And everything the Defence Secretary is working on. Can you please check if the Prime Minister is any closer to approving the Twister jets?”

“Of course,” she said. “Go.”

He jogged down the stairs and got into the car. He clasped his hands together on his lap as he watched out of the window, staring out at the passing cars. He didn’t say a word as they reached the outside of the hospital, getting out and walking in. He headed straight for the intensive care unit.

Greg was standing in the hallway, staring at the door Mycroft imagined Sherlock was behind. The door swung closed behind Mycroft and he walked up to him, into his arms, holding on fast.

“How is he?” Mycroft whispered.

“Unconscious still. Far as I can tell.”

Mycroft squeezed him, closing his eyes and stealing his comfort, clinging to it. He always hoped the last time he’d be in hospital for Sherlock would be the last time. And yet he knew, always knew, it never would be. If he could go around the entire planet burning every opium poppy plant and coca plant then he would make it his life’s work. But Sherlock would always find an alternative, and that was the life of an addict. He’d never be far away from needing another hit, no matter how many times he fought the urges, no matter how long he succeeded. The need would always be there, underlying everything else.

He kissed Greg’s cheek as he took a step back. “I’m sorry you had to be there.”

“At least he contacted someone.”

Mycroft nodded. He turned his attention to the window, where the doctors were providing him with fluids and making sure he was still breathing. This looked almost as bad as the time Sherlock had almost died. “I need to call our parents,” he finally decided. He checked the time. “They’ll be line dancing.” He gave Greg a quick kiss, a silent plea for him to stay where he was. “I’ll just be outside.”

Greg took his hand and squeezed it, and Mycroft walked out of the corridor. He was forced to call his father’s mobile.

“Mycroft?” his father asked over the music.

“Sherlock’s overdosed,” Mycroft told him. “You need to come to the hospital.” He kept his voice calm as he relayed the details, but had to pinch his eyes shut for a moment as he lowered the phone, furious at Sherlock for putting them all through this again.

He joined Greg again, taking his proffered hand. The consultant walked out. “We got him here quickly, which is obviously critical. We don’t think he went without oxygen to the brain for very long - if at all - so I’m not too concerned about brain damage.”

“What’s the likelihood of him waking?” Mycroft asked.

“Like I said, we got him here quickly. He is still unconscious and we’re monitoring his breathing closely. You can go and see him now.”

Mycroft nodded. “Thank you.” He watched as the consultant walked away. How many people like Sherlock did they see? he wondered. And how many of those had the opportunities Sherlock had? Enough money to never need anything. Enough family support that he’d never be alone. And he squandered it all for a fix. How many addicts, he thought, were still loved in the way that Sherlock was? And he didn’t care. Didn’t want any of it.

Greg tugged at Mycroft’s hand and Mycroft frowned at him for a second, allowing himself to be led to Sherlock’s room. He took one of the chairs, Greg sitting beside him. He stared at Sherlock lying there, his face pale, requiring on equipment just to breathe. He was a fool. A selfish, arrogant fool.

“When did this happen last time?” Greg asked.

Mycroft licked his lips. “Seven years ago. This is the forth time he has ended up in hospital, but the second time he has been unconscious. I wish I could say with some certainty this will be the last. Assuming he wakes up, of course.”

“He’ll wake up. You know Sherlock. He’s made of tough stuff.”

“Mm.”

“If you need anything, shout,” Greg said.

Mycroft looked at him, at the concern in his brown eyes. Trust Sherlock to ruin their day. “It would be nice if you could stay for a while.”

Greg nodded. “I’m here as long as you want me to be.”

Mycroft nodded and rested his head on Greg’s shoulder, feeling just a little selfish himself for being so needy and so eager to take what he offered. “Thank you,” he said, leaning into Greg’s touch.

How many times would he have to sit here? Well, this could very well be the last time, he supposed. How many more times could Sherlock continue to greet death, shake its hand, and walk away unscathed? His immune system had to have been shot to hell, his body struggling to fight off all the damage he’d done to it.

Mycroft blamed himself. If he hadn’t gone to university and hardly returned home, if he’d not gone to America… Then Sherlock wouldn’t have been left to his own devices, to ruin his life and cause chaos where he went.

“I left university when I was 21 and went straight into the security services,” he explained to Greg, turning to kiss his shoulder. “Four years later, Sherlock started university, the same year I went to the USA. I should have realised how hard he would find the experience with his inability to make people like him.” He narrowed his eyes, watching the machines by Sherlock’s bedside. “You are a very rare entity, Greg. Sherlock tolerates you and not only that, you’re willing to put up with him also. And you encourage him. But still, with all those new opportunities, he still returns to heroin. I despair.”

“We’ll get him through it.”

“If he ever wakes up.”

“He’ll wake up, Mycroft.”

“I wish I shared your confidence. And even if he does wake. What then? He only brings pain to himself and those around him. I wish I didn’t care.”

“You don’t mean that,” Greg said.

Mycroft watched his brother. “I do,” he said, and though such a vile statement, he knew he meant it. If he could chase all these feelings away, he’d be safer and more able to get on with his life. Sherlock brought disruption and… complications.

Greg shook his head. “No one wants to feel nothing.” Mycroft stroked his thumb against Greg’s knuckles. Oh, if only Greg knew that yes, feeling nothing at all would be wonderful. In 12 months, he’d gone through far too much inner torment, just to get to this point with Greg. And there were more stresses to come, inevitably.

“My stomach’s rumbling,” Greg said. “Let me go get us some food, yeah? What do you want?” Greg asked.

“I don’t.”

“You have to eat something.”

“Goodness knows what this hospital considers appropriate food. I’ll have whatever it is you come across for yourself.” He didn’t watch as Greg walked to the door, but he called out his name.

Greg turned around. “Yeah?”

“And a coffee?”

“I’ll be as quick as I can.”

Mycroft sat still in his chair, staring at his brother. He couldn’t pinpoint a particular moment where everything had gone wrong, he only knew that it had.

Greg brought him some coffee and a sandwich. Mycroft thanked him and began to eat it in silence, just watching Sherlock. There were no ways to convey his anger at him, because if he survived, he’d only be relieved. He could never express to Sherlock that he cared about him, because Sherlock didn’t want to hear it. And the three of them, Mycroft, his mother, his father, all blamed themselves in some way.

And his parents worst of all, because they had plenty of reasons to wonder where they’d gone wrong.

Mycroft wasn’t sure they had, apart from perhaps their early years, spent segregated from other children. It had probably affected his brother more than they realised until later. And then when they had realised…

He shook his head, folding up the packaging and putting it onto the floor. “I was in America when Sherlock first began taking drugs,” he said. “I think it’s fair to say he was hardly on my radar at the time. I was involved in my first major national security threat. We were working with the Americans on the problem. We devised a plan. It didn’t succeed as it should have done. Someone made a costly error and a CIA agent paid for it with his life. The agent and I had an intimate relationship.”

“You were together?” Greg asked.

Yes. “Not precisely,” he said, careful not to hurt Greg’s feelings by admitting just how intimate he and Jimmy were. They all had pasts, that he knew, but he didn’t want Greg to think he had to live up to the memories of a dead man. “We were close. But it was very early days.”

“How early?” Greg asked.

“Almost two months. But I found it difficult when I returned to the UK. He was the kind of man people gravitated towards.I didn’t realise what Sherlock was doing until he ended up in hospital. I promised myself I wouldn’t make that mistake again.”

“It’s not your fault.”

“I should have known. Sherlock was 11 when I went to university, and he struggled. He found it difficult to make friends. And when I returned home, he’d hardly speak to me. He was furious I left him. He finds social interaction difficult, but he does like to bounce his ideas around.”

“That does sound familiar.”

Mycroft leaned forward in his seat. “We’re running out of options, Greg. We’re not going to be able to cure him of this addiction.”

“Shut up,” Greg said.

Mycroft frowned. “I’m sorry?”

“I just mean stop being so damn negative. He’s going to wake up. And we’re not out of options. We’ll figure something out. He’s been off heroin for a while, yeah? So we need to find new ways of sorting his brain out. He’ll be fine.”

Mycroft shook his head. “You see too much good in the world.”

“And I don’t get why you don’t. You see the same bad stuff as I do every day. But there’s good there too. You know there is.”

“I have been here far too often with my brother.”

“Yeah. I know. I’ve only been in his life two years and I’ve seen it more than I like. But that doesn’t mean we stop trying. We’ll figure it out together.”

He looked around as Anthea walked in with some papers. “I brought these as requested, sir. Hi, Detective Inspector.” Mycroft took the files from her. “How is he?”

“Stable, whatever that means,” Mycroft replied.

She nodded. “Indigo is progressing as planned, sir.”

Mycroft nodded, knowing that meant the Prime Minister had approved the Twister fighter jets for use. “Thank you. I require hourly updates.”

“Yes, sir. Let me know how he’s doing.” She turned and left.

Mycroft opened up the folders, trying to work out how on earth MI5 had lost the people they were tracking. This had been happening far too regularly for his liking. Greg opened a newspaper and Mycroft took a pen out of his pocket for him to use on the puzzle page.

“I need to stretch my legs and get another coffee,” Greg told him after an hour. “D’you want one?”

“No. Thank you.” Greg got up and Mycroft reached out to him. He stood up, taking hold of his hand.

“I’ve got you, alright?” Greg said.

Mycroft nodded, taking a step closer, allowing Greg to wrap an arm around him. He squeezed Greg’s hand, leaning against him. His heart was aching, but being closer to him, breathing in his scent made it feel as better as it could possibly be. He raised his head as the door opened, and he kept a tight grip on Greg’s hand as his parents walked in.

“Oh, Myc,” his mother said, and Mycroft let go of Greg to go to her and kiss her cheek. He shook his father’s hand.

“How is he?” his father asked.

“Stable, but that’s all we know,” Mycroft said.

“Is it worse than last time?”

“Much the same.”

“Stupid boy,” his mother said, turning her attention to Greg. Mycroft followed her eye-line and held his hand out to Greg. Greg took it.

“This is Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade,” Mycroft murmured, entwining their fingers.

“I thought as much,” she said. “It’s lovely to meet you.”

Greg nodded. “Likewise. I just… I wish it was under better circumstances.”

She nodded and his father kissed her hair as he wrapped a supportive arm around her. “Me too,” Mrs Holmes said. “You’ve been good to Sherlock, Myc tells us.”

“Mycroft,” Mycroft muttered.

“I don’t know,” Greg said. “I’ve tried. I don’t know how useful I’ve been.”

“I’m assured you’ve been quite wonderful. Mycroft, I would like to speak to the doctor. Can we please find him or her?”

“Certainly,” Mycroft said. He let go of Greg’s hand. “We’ll be back shortly.”

He walked out with his mother, leading her down the corridor. “How on earth did it pass your notice that Sherlock was back on drugs?” she asked.

Mycroft shook his head. “Sherlock returns to drugs like people return to any kind of habit. It’s hard to stop.”

“He seemed better at Christmas. Perhaps you should have been around more.”

Mycroft didn’t say anything until they found the consultant, who told Mycroft’s mother much the same as he had been told earlier. They walked away in silence, Mycroft a few steps ahead. He didn’t need a reminder that this was all his fault. It wasn't that his mother was intentionally unkind, but Sherlock, her youngest, was very much  _her_ boy. She saw so much of herself in him, somehow.

They returned to the hospital room and Mycroft collected the papers. “Greg, let’s go for a walk.”

Greg nodded. “Sure.”

Mycroft led him to the hospital waiting room, relived to see it empty. He sat down on the sofa. “Good lord, the springs in this are dreadful.”

Greg nodded. “I know. I sat in that same seat last time we were here.” Greg held his arm out. “Come here.”

Mycroft leaned into his side, letting out a soft sigh as Greg held him close.

“Right. Here’s what I’m going to do,” Greg started. “I’m going to mine and I’ll grab a change of clothes and stuff. I think I’ve still got that black shirt you gave to me once. Sorry about that, I meant to bring it over.”

“It’s fine.”

“I’ll bring some clothes, alright?” Greg asked.

Mycroft nodded. “Thank you.”

Greg kissed him. “I won’t be long.”

He stood up and Mycroft looked at him. “I’m sorry,” he said.

“What for?”

“For all of this.”

Greg shook his head. “I wouldn’t change it for anything.”

Greg smiled at him and left Mycroft alone. Mycroft stood up and walked to the window, standing there, staring out. He let time run by until his father walked in.

“Sherlock’s awake,” he said. “It doesn’t seem as though he’s done any damage to his brain.”

Mycroft nodded. “Thank you.”

“Do you want to see him?”

“I will later.”

“Are you working?”

Mycroft nodded. “In a sense. I’m just tired.”

“Come and see him, Mycroft. You’ll feel better.”

Mycroft nodded, returning his gaze to the window, waiting until his father left. He went to the drinks machine to buy a bottle of water when his phone beeped.

He opened the message from a withheld number. There were pictures of Greg there, leaving the hospital. Pictures of him going into his building and then returning with a shopping bag full of items. Mycroft knew from the clothes he was wearing that they’d been taken not long ago.

Mycroft’s blood ran cold. He held his phone in shaky hands. Greg’s life was still in danger, and it was all because of him. Sherlock was nearly dead. Because of him. He couldn’t keep the people he loved out of harm’s way for even a few months.

He rubbed his hands over his face and rang Anthea.

“Yes, sir?” she asked.

Mycroft swallowed. “Rickard Luck has people following Greg Lestrade. I need his surveillance lifted to the maximum level.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I don’t want to see it. I don’t want any of it to pass my desk. His safety is your priority and you will see whatever you need done done.”

“But sir-”

“No questions.” He looked up as Greg walked in. “Increase his security now. I need to go. I need half hourly updates. It is absolutely critical.” He hung up the phone, his heart racing in his chest.

He looked up at Greg, who was so oblivious to everything going on around him. Mycroft wanted to kiss him, hold him. “Sherlock’s awake,” he said.

“Oh thank God,” Greg breathed out. “How long?”

“The past 15 minutes.”

“Is he-”

“His brain function seems unaffected.”

“Good. That’s brilliant news.” He began to smile and took a step towards Mycroft. “What’s up?”

Mycroft opened his mouth. Oh please don’t make me say it. He wanted Greg, needed him, more than ever. But he couldn’t let him die, not just so he could get a few more days, weeks or months with him. He couldn’t be so selfish.

Greg walked towards him and Mycroft held his hand out. “It’s over,” he said tightly, the words like shards of glass to his heart.

Greg frowned. “What? What’s over?”

“It should never have begun in the first place.”

Greg took another step. “What? No, no, don’t do this just because you’re scared.”

“I’m not,”

Greg's jaw tightened, “Stop it, Mycroft. Seriously. Don’t give up on this just because Sherlock did heroin and it’s freaked you out.”

“It has nothing to do with Sherlock. I cannot give you what you want.”

Greg held his hand out, almost reaching Mycroft’s shoulder. “Mycroft. You have feelings for me for God’s sake.”

He looked Greg square in the eye. “I don’t,” he said, willing him to stop speaking, to let it go.

Greg shook his head, the pain evident on his face. “Don’t lie to me. You’ve never lied to me before. Shut up and think about this.”

“I was mistaken.”

“Don’t do this.”

“It’s over,” he said again.

“It is not over,” Greg hissed.

“Yes it is. We were stupid to have let it start in the first place.”

“Mycroft, you introduced me to your parents for God’s sake.”

“I’m aware.”

Greg stared at him. “Why are you doing this?”

Mycroft took a breath. “I would appreciate it if you would continue to work with Sherlock when he is well.”

“Mycroft-”

“It’s done, Greg,” he said tightly as he began to walk to the door.

Greg grabbed his arm and Mycroft wanted to haul him close and say sorry, I don’t want to do this, but he had to, because he was not going to let Greg die, not because of him, not because he dragged him down into his world.

“You’re throwing away a bloody good thing here,” Greg protested. “I care about you.”

“No, Greg. I’m ending this now.”

“We’ll sort this, whatever it is-”

Mycroft yanked his arm away from his touch, knowing it’d be the last time he ever had Greg’s hand on his body. “It’s over,” he snarled. “Now, stop begging. It’s pathetic.”

“Who the hell do you think you are?”

Mycroft swallowed. “Goodbye, Greg. I will be in touch about Sherlock.” He walked out into the corridor and kept walking, past Sherlock’s room, ignoring his parents completely as he walked out into the cold. He found the car and got in, barely managing to mutter the word ‘home’.

He kept his face as neutral as he could, wishing he didn’t see the pain in Greg’s face, swimming through his head. Wishing he couldn’t still hear him begging for it not to end.

He got into his flat. He closed the door. The silence, emptiness, was deafening. There was a mug on the living room table, not on a coaster. Mycroft stared at it. His chest clenched. There would never again be another mug sat on that table without a coaster. He’d never again hear his flat filled with Greg’s warm laugh. He’d never again brush past him in the kitchen, curl up with him on the sofa, talk to him about… about everything.

He managed to walk through the flat, collecting the mug. He carried it to the kitchen and washed it up, silence ringing in his ears. He put it down to dry and shuffled to his bedroom.

There was a single grey hair on Greg’s pillow.

He took one shaking inhale of breath. He grabbed the pillow and yanked the case off, beginning to strip off the bedding. He scooped it all up in his arms and carried it to the kitchen, shoving it in the washing machine, not daring to breathe in, lest he inhaled Greg’s aftershave. He kicked the door of it closed and grabbed the mug from the side, throwing it hard against the wall. It shattered, and it brought Mycroft one second to respite. 

He lifted his hands to his face, his whole body shaking but he refused to cry. Greg would stay alive because of this decision. He had to stay resolved. 

He dropped his hands. He stared at the mug and dropped to his knees to collect up the broken pieces of china. One of the points cut his hand. He lifted it and wiped the bead of blood away. He threw it all in the bin.

He poured himself a brandy and stood in the centre of his living room, staring around at it. He pulled the cushions from the sofa, throwing them into a black bin liner, because they too were likely to smell like Greg. He poured the whiskey Greg liked so much down the sink. He found the letter opener from South Korea, the gift he never gave him, and threw it in a bin. He grabbed the tie pin Greg got him for his birthday, balancing it on his hand for a moment. He carried it through to his office and pulled the picture of the Queen off the wall. He unlocked the safe and threw the pin inside, closing it and locking it, and covering it back up with the picture.

Then he sat on his settee. He stared around at the room.

He checked the time. He’d give himself six hours to grieve. Six hours to miss him. Six hours to do whatever it took to try to get over it. And then he’d move on.

He covered his face with his hands. And alone on his sofa, he mourned for a man who wasn't dead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I didn't want to post this chapter. Sob.


	32. Casulties

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for original character death.
> 
> This chapter is entirely flashback. Normally with the flashbacks I put them in italics, but I thought that would be annoying for 4,000+ words...

**January, 1996.**

**Location: Pakistan.**

The heat was oppressive even in those few minutes he was outside when Mycroft stepped off the aeroplane and got into the passenger seat of the car. “How you doing?” the CIA agent as they began to drive.

Mycroft shook his head. “I despise flying,” he muttered. “How is everything at base?”

“Plans are going ahead. It’s not bad.”

Mycroft nodded. Jimmy had flown from America three days earlier, taking the helm at the secret CIA location in Pakistan. This was going to be his mission, to take out a group of terrorists before they could carry out their plot back in America. It was Jimmy’s first time being in charge of something like this. Mycroft knew he was ready for it, but he still felt a strange knot of trepidation in his chest when he thought about it.

He was taken to the base, and wheeled his suitcase in after him as he went to their main intelligence room. He shook hands with the few people he recognised and was shown to a computer. He sat down at it, flicking through the papers already left there.

“Myc!” Mycroft couldn’t help his smile at the familiar voice as he turned around in his chair, raising his eyebrows at Jimmy. He held his hand out and Jimmy shook it, grinning at him. “Good to have you on board,” he said, their eyes meeting, full of unspoken familiarity and warmth. They held hands for a few moments longer than they would have done with anyone else, Jimmy giving an extra squeeze before they let go. 

“It’s good to be here,” Mycroft replied. He picked up some of the papers. “Is this what you want me to work on?”

“Yeah, but there’s a bit of time to get settled in yet. You look shattered.”

“It’s fine. I’d rather get to work.”

Jimmy nodded and grabbed a spare chair, wheeling it over. He sat down at the desk. “Right, we’ve found the men we’re after," he said. "There’s this lot here. This is Hilel Klahr’s successor.” He pointed to a picture. “He’s a rich man but doesn’t seem too brainy. We keep tracing his phone calls. He’s making it too easy.”

“Too easy?” Mycroft asked. “Is he-”

“-And this guy here is his brother, probably next in line. And this fella here is wanted in the States already. So, we get him, we get a man off the Most Wanted list. Good, huh?”

Mycroft nodded. “Yes, I’m sure it-”

“-So, here’s what I want you to do. Do your job of monitoring all the communications, find out what you can. This is their base…” Jimmy turned to the computer, typing into it until he found their cameras, pointed what Mycroft supposed was the terrorists’ base. “I’ve got some people keeping watch over that. If you see any links, you know, whatever ridiculously amazing thing you do, then you let me know.”

“Of course.”

Jimmy grinned and patted him on the back. “Mission’s planned for four days time, if we get approval. We’ve got the team already practising.”

“Practising?”

“We’ve set up a replica of what we think the compound looks like. So, they’re in training. Not here, they’re at another facility in India at the mo. You sure you don’t want a kip first?”

“No, I would rather work, thank you," Mycroft told him. 

“We’ll have dinner tonight,” Jimmy said with a smile. “We’ve got a kitchen together, I’ll knock something up for us.”

“Jimmy-”

“-See you later,” Jimmy said with a grin, getting up and wheeling his chair around to talk to some of the other intelligence-gathering agents. Mycroft frowned as he watched him, wondering what he wasn’t being told.

But he went about his work, catching up on what they had already and working out where he could help. This was the work he loved. Looking for links, noticing things other people missed.

After several hours had passed, Jimmy joined him, taking a seat on the desk. “I’ve got some food cooking,” he said. “It’ll be ready soon. How’s it going?”

“It’s fine,” Mycroft told him, reaching out to stroke his knee. “How are you?”

“Yeah, good. It’s a bit weird. People keep calling me ‘sir’ and I’m not used to that. But I think we’ve got a good thing going.”

“And have you got approval for the mission yet?”

Jimmy shook his head. “We just need to prove a couple more bits and pieces, but it’s almost sorted. You done here?”

Mycroft smiled a little. “It’s never done,” he said.

Jimmy grinned. “Come on.” He jumped off the desk. “Dinner.”

Mycroft nodded and followed him through the base until they got to the kitchen. A few agents were sat at one of the tables, debating baseball while eating some rice.

“How is it all going, Mycroft?” Bill Tomlinson asked him from another of the tables. He and Mycroft had been borrowed by the CIA together, having both worked at MI5 at the same time, although they hadn’t come into contact much. Bill was a few years younger than Mycroft, the product of old money and an Eaton and Cambridge education. His father had been involved in MI5 and his grandfather a key member in Winston Churchill’s war office.

Mycroft took a seat at the table nodded. “Fine, thank you. Have you been here long?”

“Only a day longer than you, actually. It’s all quite exciting.”

Jimmy grinned as he joined them, pulling a chair out and sitting backwards on it. “It’s going well,” he agreed. “We’ve got the intel, we’ve got the plan, we just need the a-okay.”

“I will do my duty,” Bill said with a smile. “And then I’ll be back to England.”

Mycroft raised his eyebrows. “You will?” he asked.

Bill nodded, running a hand through his hair. “I miss London,” he replied. “I prefer to be sat behind one of the desks at the SIS Building to all of this… heat.”

“I love the heat,” Jimmy said. “Nothing better than being at the centre of it all.”

Mycroft glanced at him and then at the oven. “Jimmy, there’s smoke coming-”

“Shit!” he exclaimed, jumping out of his seat.

Bill laughed and stood up, collecting his plates and taking them to the sink. “Are you not coming back?” Bill asked.

“My offer to stay at the CIA has been extended,” Mycroft replied. “I suppose they find me useful.”

“And you don’t mind the heat?”

“Oh, I hate the heat.”

Bill laughed. “I need to get back to work. I’ll see you later.”

Mycroft nodded at him and stood up to help Jimmy with the cooking. He prodded one of the burnt potatoes with a fork. “Well, that went well,” he muttered, smiling.

Jimmy laughed. “My mind’s elsewhere.”

“Understandable,” Mycroft replied. “Is it salvageable?”

“Yeah, I think so. I’ll scoop the innards out, mix it up with some onion and we’ll have that.”

They looked up as some chair legs scraped along the floor as the group of agents got up and left the room. They waited until the door closed until Jimmy stepped away from the counter, cupping Mycroft’s cheek and kissing him. “God, I hated waiting all day to do this.”

Mycroft hummed into the kiss. “I was surprised by your restraint.”

“So was I.” Jimmy kissed him again, pressing him against the counter. “I’ve got a lot to do tonight. But I’m gonna try to be in bed by midnight. Can I join you?”

Mycroft raised his eyebrows. “Do you really need to ask?”

Jimmy laughed, stealing another kiss before turning back to preparing their dinner. “I hoped not, but I never know with you, Myc.”

Mycroft smiled and sat down at the table, watching him cook. Eventually Jimmy brought their dinner over.

“Toby Goff has been in a lot of meetings the past few days,” Mycroft informed him. “I think he’s expecting a promotion any day now.”

“Means his job will be available. I should think I’ll be top of the shortlist if this mission comes off.”

Mycroft nodded. “I imagine so. Jimmy, the communications… don’t you think it’s all been a little… too easy?

“No, no, we’ve thought about that, but everything’s fine. I promise you, there’s nothing to worry about. You look tired.”

“I am.”

“Why don’t you get shower, or whatever it is that’ll make you feel better? I’ll come join you later.”

Mycroft sighed and nodded. “I suppose that’d be a good idea. But call me if you need anything.”

Jimmy smiled and stroked his hand. “I’m glad you’re here,” he said.

Mycroft stood up, leaning down to kiss the top of his head. “You go back to work. I’ll clean up.”

Jimmy smiled at him. “Thanks.” They shared a soft kiss and Mycroft began to wash up their dishes. He walked through the compound to where everyone was staying.

He used the shower, finding relief from the heat under the cool water. His bedroom was sparse, with just a wardrobe with some built-in drawers and a metal-framed bed, but it was a double at least, with some fresh clean sheets. He finally unpacked, hanging up his suits. He turned on the fan, not wanting to let the heat from outside in through the window. He lay down on the bed in just his underwear, closing his eyes.

He must have fallen asleep, because when Jimmy joined him, it was pitch black outside, the fan still humming and keeping it nicely cool.

“Hey there,” Jimmy murmured, kissing a trail down Mycroft’s neck.

Mycroft smiled, reaching out for him, beginning to unfasten his shirt. “What time is it?” he asked.

“Just a bit gone midnight.” Jimmy kissed him, tasting like cigarettes and mint chewing gum. He shrugged out of his shirt and stroked his hands down Mycroft’s chest. “How tired are you feeling?”

Mycroft smiled up at him, seeing him just enough through the darkness to make out his suggestive smile. “You seem to have woken me up,” he said as Jimmy straddled his hips.

Jimmy grinned, rocking his hips down. “Mmm, so I have,” he said as Mycroft’s cock stirred in his boxers. He kissed him again. “God, it’s so much better with you here.”

Mycroft nodded, unfastening Jimmy’s trousers. He watched as Jimmy shucked them off along with his underwear, until he was naked beside him, peeling Mycroft’s boxers down. Mycroft ran his fingers through his hair, gasping as Jimmy’s lips wrapped around his cock.

He closed his eyes, tipping his head back. Jimmy sucked on the sensitive head, flicking his tongue out, circling. Mycroft trembled, tugging at his hair. “Get back here,” he breathed out.

Jimmy groaned, lifting his mouth with a pop and moved up to kiss Mycroft, pressing his tongue into his mouth. Mycroft wrapped his arms around him, scraping his nails down his back, arching up as their cocks pressed together between their bodies.

“Oh yeah,” Jimmy groaned, rocking his hips. He leaned over, grabbing his trousers and dropping a condom and two packets of lubricant on Mycroft’s chest.

“It’s good to know you’re as prepared as always,” Mycroft said with an affectionate smile, ripping open the lubricant and spreading it over his fingers.

“That’s my job,” Jimmy said, biting Mycroft’s jaw. “Preparation’s the key.”

Mycroft hummed, reaching round him to press a finger against Jimmy’s hole. It slid in easily. He laughed a little, pressing a second finger inside, curling them. Jimmy moaned, pressing back against them. “That’s good,” he praised, kissing Mycroft’s neck. “God, I just had to prepare myself when I was in the shower. I just kept thinking about you.”

“You could have just joined me,” Mycroft replied, amused. “I’d have spent a while doing that for you.” Jimmy shuddered as Mycroft scissored his fingers.

“Mmm, but I once I started…" Jimmy trembled. "Oh fuck, yeah, good…”

Mycroft began to move his fingers, staring up at Jimmy’s face. “You should be a bit quieter.”

Jimmy laughed, kissing him. “You know, what we’re doing here is illegal?”

Mycroft smiled, carefully withdrawing his fingers and opening the condom packet. “I’m aware,” he said.

“I love it.” Jimmy flicked his tongue against Mycroft’s nipple. “I almost feel like it’s teaching those homophobic dicks a lesson.” He took hold of the packet of lube, spreading it liberally over Mycroft’s sheathed cock.

Mycroft hummed as Jimmy wrapped his hand around him, positioning his cock against his entrance. Jimmy pressed down and Mycroft’s mouth fell open as the tight heat wrapped around him. He reached up to take hold of Jimmy’s hips, barely able to breathe.

“Yeah, you’re perfect,” Jimmy said when he’d taken Mycroft’s cock inside. He leaned down and kissed him hard, beginning to rock his hips. Mycroft braced himself against the bed with his hands so he could lift his hips up to meet him.

Jimmy moaned, not holding back as he rocked his hips down to meet Mycroft’s thrusts. “Yeah, love that,” he said, wrapping his hand around his own cock. Mycroft breathed hard, stilling and stroking Jimmy’s thigh. Jimmy leaned down to kiss him and Mycroft took hold of his cock, stroking him slowly.

Jimmy rocked his hips and bit Mycroft’s bottom lip. “So, close,” he gasped out. “Just… don’t stop, harder…”

Mycroft thrust his hips up and squeezed his cock, beginning to speed up the efforts with his hand. Jimmy had got quiet, a sure sign he was close, just moving to meet Mycroft’s movements. He came with a deep groan, spilling over Mycroft’s hand.

“Come for me, Myc,” he said, kissing his neck. “Wanna feel it…” He pushed down against Mycroft’s cock and Mycroft shuddered, closing his eyes as he came too. He dropped his hands and let out a long breath.

Jimmy collapsed down beside him, grabbing the tissues from beside the bed to clean them both up. Just a minute later, he was curling up to Mycroft’s side, pulling the sheet over him. He nuzzled Mycroft’s neck and then guided him into a gentle kiss. “Sweet dreams, Myc.”

“Goodnight Jimmy.” He smiled as Jimmy sprawled out over him and Mycroft wrapped an arm over his shoulders, closing his eyes.

* * *

They didn’t see each other much over the next couple of days, except when they went to bed with one another, Jimmy sprawled out over Mycroft, snoring lightly. On one morning they had lazy sex in the shower before they went their respective ways. Jimmy went to check on the team who would be heading into the terrorists’ base. Mycroft continued his work with the intelligence reports.

It was late one evening and he was still working when Jimmy sat down on his desk. “We got the go-ahead for the mission,” he said with a soft smile.

Mycroft glanced around to see they were alone and he reached up, brushing his fingers against Jimmy’s cheek. “I knew you would,” he said. “After all the effort you’ve put in. When is it happening?”

“Tomorrow night.”

Mycroft nodded. “I don’t think the terrorists suspect anything,” he said. “Not from the reports I’ve been reading. Something is not quite right though.”

“What?”

“I don’t like how much we’ve been hearing. I thought they were more careful than this.”

“Hilel Klahr was careful and we still got him,” Jimmy pointed out. “And when we got him, his network fell apart. They’re… more stupid, sure, but that doesn’t mean there’s anything wrong.”

Mycroft nodded slowly. “I know,” he replied, squeezing Jimmy’s knee. “I’m not trying to put you off.”

“You’ve not seen anything to make you think they know about the mission, right? Or that they’re being followed?”

Mycroft shook his head. “No. But we know far more about the planned attack in Washington than I think we should know.”

Jimmy shrugged and stood up. “It’s all fine,” he said.

“Jimmy, if someone has doubts, you should listen to them.”

“And do you have doubts?”

“Some,” Mycroft said.

“Alright. Then let’s sit down and discuss every single one of them.” So they spent the next three hours going over every aspect of the plan until a few other agents had joined them, everyone going over every aspect of it.

When they finally crawled into bed together, they were each exhausted. “Happy now though?” Jimmy asked, kissing him.

Mycroft nodded. “Yes, it’s fine,” he replied, a small frown between his eyebrows.

* * *

It was 5am when they were awoken to the sound of gunfire. They jumped out of bed, hastily dressing and grabbing their own weapons. One of their cars had been shot at on its way into the base. One of the men was seriously injured.

“He was supposed to be going on the mission,” Jimmy muttered, frowning.

Mycroft was brushing his teeth, watching Jimmy pace in the reflection of the mirror. “Postpone it,” he said.

“Can’t.”

“Yes, you can.”

“Myc, if we don’t kill that lot then they’re going to bomb Washington.”

“They probably know we’re here now.”

Jimmy paused, pulling on his shirt. “It’s going to be fine. Look, so what if they know we’re here? There’s been American CIA teams here for years and years. But I can’t sit here and let those people fly to the States and do fuck knows what.”

“I know.” Mycroft turned to him. “But you’re a man down.”

“I’m going in.”

Mycroft stared at him. “You can’t,” he said. “No one knows it better than you. You have to lead it from the base.”

“No one knows it better than me,” Jimmy agreed. “Which is why I have to replace Peters.”

“No. No, you did not come out here to do fieldwork.”

“Mycroft, this is the best fucking mission of my career. And after that, I’m gonna get a promotion and I’ll be pushing papers around for the rest of it. I’m going in and there’s nothing you can say to change my mind.”

“Stop acting like a superhero and think logically about this.”

“I’ve thought about it. I’m leading the mission on the ground, and Collins can lead it from the base. He’s my second, he knows how this all works.”

“Jimmy…”

“No, Myc, you’ve just gotta trust me, alright? I’ve been doing this for years and years. I know how to keep myself and my team safe. Now stop worrying and go and do your job.”

“Jimmy, if you die…”

Jimmy stared at him, exasperated. “I’m not gonna fucking die. Jesus fucking Christ, have some bloody optimism will you?”

Mycroft bit his bottom lip. “Fine,” he muttered, storming past him and out of the room.

They didn’t talk for the rest of the day. While Jimmy filled everyone in on the plans, they didn’t even look at each other. Mycroft was sat at his computer when the team of six began to file out of the building to go on the mission. He watched as Jimmy stormed past him, not saying a word. Mycroft swallowed and stood up, following them outside.

Jimmy turned to look at him. He waved the rest of the team on, walking towards Mycroft. They held one another’s eyes.

“I’ve got a horrible feeling about this,” Mycroft said softly.

“It’s going to be fine.” Jimmy cupped his cheek. “Put some beers in the fridge for me for when I get back.”

Mycroft nodded. “I will.”

Jimmy leaned in and kissed him, slowly, full of tenderness. They broke apart and Mycroft swallowed. Jimmy winked at him. “See you later, Myc,” he said, turning around and heading for the helicopter.

Mycroft stood there, watching as the helicopters rose into the air. He was still stood there when they were out of sight before turning and walking back into the base.

It took them three-quarters-of-an-hour to get to the compound. They had fuzzy video footage and audio communications with them. Collins was leading everything, keeping track of where they were while other agents were keeping an eye on the videos. It wasn’t Mycroft’s job to say or do anything, so he sat at the back, watching.

“We’ve got in,” Jimmy’s voice came over the audio. “Team A to the south side, B to the north.”

“Roger,” Collins said. Their camera, their main visual to the base, suddenly went out. “Shit!” Collins exclaimed. “Dine, we’ve lost our visual. You still sticking?”

“Still sticking with it,” Jimmy confirmed. He waited a few moments. “Breaking in the first door,” Jimmy said. They waited, and seconds later there was a small explosion as they broke into the first door. “Team B in,” he said.

“There should be two doors,” Collins told him. “The left door will bring you into the main hub of the base.”

“Roger that,” Jimmy replied. “Breaking in the door in 5-4-” There was the sound of another explosion. Mycroft frowned.

“That went off early,” he said, leaning forward in his chair.

“Team B, come in,” Collins said. Silence. “Team A, come in.”

“This is Team A,” a woman’s voice, Kate Hannigan, said. “We heard an explosion. I can see fire.”

“Team B, come in,” Collins said. “Team B. Team B, will you come in?”

“This is the pilot of Team A Helicopter,” a voice came over the line. “The compound is… There were two explosions, we’re waiting for the smoke to clear but…”

“But?”

There was a long pause. “I think we need to abort, sir,” the pilot said.

Mycroft stood up. From beside him, Bill was shaking his head, muttering ‘fucking hell’ over and over. Suddenly, their screen with the camera to the base came back on. They all turned to it. Part of the base was blown to the ground. Collins kept calling for Team B to come in, but there was only silence and he called the pilots and Team A to abort.

Mycroft took a step backwards, knocking the chair over, but he hardly noticed. He felt sick. He hardly listened to everything going on. He felt Bill’s hand on his shoulder but he pulled away, leaving the room, slamming the door behind him. He stood out in the corridor alone, his skin clammy.

No. He couldn’t bear to believe that three of them hadn’t made it. That Jimmy hadn’t made it. Hell, if any of them were going to make it back, it would be Jimmy. He sat down at his computer and continued to work, until he was startled by a hand on his shoulder. He looked up to where Bill was standing. He shook his head. “We had confirmation two minutes ago,” he said quietly. “No survivors from Team B.”

Mycroft stared at him. “Jimmy,” he murmured.

Bill shook his head. “I’m sorry,” he said softly. “I know you guys were pretty close friends.”

Close friends. Mycroft nodded numbly. “He’s a… he was one of the best,” he replied, swallowing. “Thank you, Bill.”

Bill patted his shoulder, leaving him alone. Mycroft turned back to his computer, but he didn’t see the screen anymore. He stood up, pushing the chair back. He began to walk through the base, an oppressive silence filling it, until he reached his and Jimmy’s bedroom.

Jimmy’s civilian clothes were lying haphazardly on the bed. Mycroft lifted his t-shirt to his face and inhaled his scent. He lowered it and began to fold Jimmy’s clothes, putting them carefully into the drawers. He stripped off his clothes and slid down under the covers, folding the corner over to make it easier for Jimmy to get in when he…

Mycroft lay down on his back. His breath came in short bursts. He gripped the covers in one hand. He rolled over onto his side, and everything smelt like Jimmy and like the most perfect place on earth. His eyes stung, filling with tears. He squeezed them shut, unable to breathe, unable to bear it. He pulled Jimmy’s pillow to his face and he inhaled, and he was so bloody angry at him, he wanted to punch the pillow until the stuffing was knocked out of it.

He wanted to shout and scream at Jimmy, but if he did now, it would only be at a dead body, or at a piece of stone and no… no, Jimmy was so much more than a stone in the ground and a star on the wall at Langley.

He was one of their best agents, destined for a promotion and so many good things, and… Mycroft let out a strangled sob into the pillow, shaking it and shoving it against the wall. “Damn it!” he shouted out, hitting his hand hard against the mattress. He rolled onto his front and sobbed into his arms, and when daylight came, they found him sat in the kitchen with a bottle of unopened beer and Jimmy’s t-shirt scrunched up in his hands. 


	33. Back To The Drawing Board

**January 2007.**

**Location: Crusader House, Pall Mall, London.**

Alarm. Shower. Teeth. Clothes. Breakfast - a bagel with some Philadelphia cheese and a coffee. Newspapers. Car to the Coeur de Lion Offices. Security check. Desk.

He closed the door and sunk into his chair. He glanced around his office, straightening some papers and his laptop. He logged in, opening up Watchtower and his emails. Anthea knocked on the door and brought him a coffee, sitting down and opening out her reports.

“Cancel everything,” Mycroft said before she could speak.

She stared at him a moment and then glanced down at her papers. “You have eight meetings today.”

“Cancel all of them,” he said. “I’m going to the Diogenes.”

“Mr Holmes-”

“Anthea.” He stared at her. “Cancel them,” he said through gritted teeth. “Act as though I’ve stepped off the face of the planet. I am inaccessible.”

“Yes, sir,” she said, sinking back in the chair. “And tomorrow?”

“I’ll be back tomorrow.” Mycroft stood up and glanced around his desk before walking out, ignoring everything and everyone. He got back into the car. “The Diogenes, please,” he murmured.

His phone beeped and he pulled it out, frowning.

 

MESSAGES Greg Lestrade  
9.23am: Just checking you’re  
ok. 

 

Mycroft swallowed. He brushed his finger against the screen as though that would somehow bring him closer to Greg. The man whose heart Mycroft broke last night. The man who cared so much he still text to ask.

Biting his lip, Mycroft deleted the text. He gazed out of the window at the people they passed, shielding themselves from the rain and wrapping up in wool coats. And they didn’t know how envious he was of them. So oblivious. Unaware. Like caged animals in a zoo, never knowing there was a world outside, vast and uncertain.

If only.

Oh, how to be so ignorant.

They parked outside of the white Diogenes building and Mycroft stared up at it. It was just another place full to the brim with secrets.

“Sir?” Jim Braum asked, turning round in his seat. “We’re here.”

Mycroft glanced at him. He nodded once. “I know,” he said.

Jim turned back to his steering wheel. Mycroft unbuckled his seatbelt and got out of the car. He turned to close the door and frowned, leaning down. “Come inside with me, Jim.”

Jim frowned. “Me?”

“Who else do you think I’m talking to? Come. I want to ask you something.” Jim got out of the car. “You need to stay silent when we go inside,” Mycroft explained. He frowned for a moment before bending back down, collecting one of his ties from the holds on the ceiling of the car. He handed it over. “And you may want to wear that.”

He had no particular qualms about Jim not wearing a tie when it was only him and Anthea he was transporting, but Diogenes guests had to be smart. He began to walk towards the entrance, Jim tying the tie up as he followed. Mycroft showed his black membership card and explained Jim was his guest. He led him inside.

The silence was more oppressive than Mycroft had ever noticed before. It had been a while since he’d spent a lot of time at the Diogenes. In fact, if he considered it, he hadn't spent a lot less time there since… He swallowed. Since Greg.

He unlocked and then opened the door to his private room, gesturing Jim inside. He shut the door. “We can talk in here,” he said, glancing around to check everything was as he left it.

“Bit of a weird place,” Jim said. “So, what did you want to show me?”

“Take a look out of that window, Jim.” Jim frowned for a second and then shrugged, walking to the window. He folded his arms as he stared outside. Mycroft took a few steps towards him. “That building over there,” he said. “Could a sniper reach a target in this room?”

“What, that one?” Jim asked, pointing. He shrugged. “Yeah, sure.” He turned and looked around the room. “They’d have to be in a very specific position. You wouldn’t have a ton of room.” He moved forward, grabbing one of the chairs. “Can I?” he asked.

Mycroft nodded. “Be my guest.”

Jim flashed him a grin and moved the chair so it was closer to the window. He stepped back to check the position and then adjusted it again. “If you had someone sat here, then I reckon it would be possible to make the shot. Not easy, sure. But I know a few blokes who could do it, and there’s plenty more out there who could manage it.”

Mycroft nodded, taking a seat in his own chair, crossing his legs at the ankles. Jim had turned back to the window. “I take it you’ve got a reason to ask,” Jim said.

Mycroft raised an eyebrow. “I didn’t employ you to ask questions.”

“Yeah, but you brought me here for a reason. You can figure this all out for yourself, I’m sure you could.” Jim took the other seat. “What do you want me to do?” he asked.

“I take it you can’t do it yourself?”

Jim shook his head. “Nah. I can shoot, don’t get me wrong, but I can’t make that range.”

“But you know people who can?”

Jim nodded. “Yeah. A mate of mine. He’s out in South Africa now, working in nature reserves. I think he shoots the animals with tranquillisers when they need a vet. But he was the best sniper I’ve ever met. Virtually a recluse now, apart from the people he works with and the rhinos.”

“Why did he leave the army?”

“I don’t know. I went back out for a rotation and he didn’t come with us. I found out he’d handed in his notice and I didn’t hear from him for about three years. Then I got this invite to South Africa, but I was in the midst of drugs then. I’m saving up, actually, to go out there.”

“Do you trust him?” Mycroft asked.

“With my life.”

“In a warzone, yes. But with secrets? The deepest and worst secrets you can imagine?”

Jim frowned. “So, you’re gonna drag some bloke in here, sit him down in this chair and have my friend blow his brains out?”

Mycroft held his eyes. “That’s the long and short of it.”

Jim raised his eyebrows, crossing his arms. “Well, I always knew you were involved in some deep shi-stuff, but I wasn’t quite expecting this, to be honest.”

“You’re surprised.”

“Yeah, a bit. Who is he?”

“I can’t tell you yet.”

Jim nodded. “You think you can bring a man into this building, have him killed and get away with it?” Mycroft didn’t move a muscle, watching him. “You’re the scariest bloke I’ve ever met.”

“I can’t do anything alone.”

Jim wrinkled his nose. “This is a test, I reckon. And I don’t know if I can win. Either I tell you I will kill a man for you, and you know I’ll do anything you ask. And then you’ll lock me in jail or something. Or I say no, and you fire me, because you can’t trust me.”

“And what’s your answer?”

“Is he a bad man? This bloke you want killed?”

“He’s one of the most repellent men I’ve had the misfortune of dealing with. He’s dangerous. Hundreds, perhaps thousands, have died because of him, indirectly.”

“How many people have you killed, Mycroft?”

Mycroft pursed his lips. “By my hands?”

Jim nodded. “By your hands.”

“Three. Directly by my hand. And how many people have you killed, Jim?”

Jim shrugged. “I don’t even know. Enough. I wasn’t planning on doing it again.”

“I won’t force you into anything you don’t want to be a part of.”

“What do you want me to do?”

“Recruit your man. Offer him whatever he needs or wants. You’ll lead the mission.”

Jim frowned. “I’ll what?”

“Consider this a war, Jim,” Mycroft said. “And I have very little experience of snipers to draw upon.”

“You want me to sort out the logistics.”

Mycroft nodded. “If you would. I will, of course, clear the way for anything you need. I’ll give you the full details when you need them. I just have one condition.”

“What’s that?”

“You don’t tell Anthea.”

Jim stared at him and let out a small laugh. “Don’t tell Anthea?” he repeated. “You reckon you’re actually going to keep this a secret from her? You’ve got to be joking.”

“I’m not,” Mycroft replied. “She’ll find out eventually, of course, but at the moment, only three of us will know about this. Myself, you and your friend. I’ll pay for you to spend some time in South Africa convincing him.”

“Alright then,” Jim said, standing up. “Is there a timetable on this?”

“Yes, we’ll see it done in April. That should give us both enough time to get our affairs in order.”

“This is one of those days, ain’t it?” Jim said. “When you look at yourself in the mirror and wonder what kind of person you are or what you’ve become.”

“I stopped looking that way in the mirror many years ago,” Mycroft replied.

Jim gazed at him for a second, pursing his lips. Finally he nodded. “Yeah,” he said. “So did I.” Mycroft watched him as he left, closing the door behind him.

Mycroft stood up, wandering to the window. In three months time, he’d have Rickard Luck killed, his brains a mess over the carpet. As he stared out through the glass, he was glad he wasn’t able to see his own reflection in it.

He stayed late at the Diogenes before returning to work. Most people had gone home, with the exception of Milburn Barturen, one of Mycroft’s overnight staff who had just got in. Anthea was still at her desk, and Mycroft could hear the occasional hint of music coming through the wall separating them.

He began to do the work he’d missed out on during the day, not stopping until it reached 2am. He travelled home after that. And it was when he wasn’t able to concentrate, when he didn’t have anything particular to focus on, that he felt the gaping hole in his heart.

It was when he stepped into his silent flat and made himself some scrambled egg on toast that he felt the loss, the emptiness. The knowledge that Greg would not be joining him there in the future.

He forced himself to eat, though he didn’t feel hungry, before going to bed. He lay awake in the darkness, sliding his hand out along the empty mattress. It wasn’t just that he’d said goodbye to Greg, but that he couldn’t imagine he’d ever be in another relationship until he retired. He couldn’t risk it.

And by then, who would want him?

His bed felt too big, his home too vast, his life full spaces that would never again be filled. The pain clutched at his very core, and he wondered if it would ever fade now. He’d never be completely able to distance himself from Greg, not while he still worked at the Metropolitan Police and with Sherlock.

He’d forever love a man who didn’t know it. He’d forever see him from afar as he met someone else and got married. He’d forever wonder what he should have done differently. And through it all, he wondered if he’d ever regret those 12 months when he enjoyed Greg’s hand in his, his lips against his mouth and that feeling of utter rightness.

He closed his eyes. The pain, the loss, was his now to bear and carry around. He’d have to use it to his advantage before it killed him completely.

* * *

The next days went by in a blur of long hours and limited sleep. He was grateful for the distraction the security threats and negotiations with South Korea brought him. When he went home, he spent innumerable hours on his laptop in his office, mostly working, occasionally reading reports. Sometimes he would read a few chapters from a book. He was reading The Chaterhouse Of Parma when he wanted to relax, and the London Olympic Games And Paralympic Games Act when he was desperate for sleep and hoped to bore himself into it.

Technically, he was supposed to be working on his third draft for the security of the Games, so the reading was not without merit, but it did come with the benefit of being the most boring document he’d had the displeasure of reading since university.

But the workload couldn’t last forever, and normality and a routine returned to his days, with meetings and monitoring the country’s current status on Watchtower. He called Anthea into his office one lunchtime. “What have I got to do this afternoon?” he asked.

She shook her head. “Whatever you want to do,” she replied. “Barring an emergency, I’ve pencilled in that you could go to the Diogenes.”

Mycroft frowned. “There’s nothing?” he asked. “No trips I need to be preparing for, Hugh Seagroves isn’t having a crisis, nothing?”

“No. Nothing.”

Mycroft frowned. “Fine. Can you bring me everything the Prime Minister is working on, and I want to meet with the Defence Secretary right away.”

“Everything the Prime Minister’s working on?” she repeated.

“Yes. I’m sure his office will have his proposed legislation sent over.”

Anthea nodded. “Yes, sir,” she said. “Can I ask why?”

“Well, I’ve got nothing else to do apparently,” Mycroft muttered.

“Right. Yes, sir.”

“Anthea.” Mycroft frowned, meeting her eyes. “I need as much work on my desk as you can give me. Bounce some work off everyone else’s desks if you have to.”

“I’ll speak to Loretta about moving some work around. But, Mr Holmes, if something comes up which requires your attention…”

“Then it will have my attention.”

“Mr Holmes-”

“Anthea,” he snapped at her. “Just find me things to do.”

She nodded, wincing a little, and left. He run a hand through his hair, regretting his reaction. Fifteen minutes later, Anthea told him the Defence Secretary was available and Mycroft took the car to his office.

“This is a rare treat,” the Secretary said with a smile, guiding Mycroft towards a chair. “Can my assistant bring you a cup of tea at all?”

Mycroft nodded. “Yes, thank you,” he said as he took a seat, though he wasn’t feeling particularly thirsty.

“So, what can I do for you?”

“Actually, it was more of a case of what I could do for you,” Mycroft said. “Your assistance has been… invaluable during some of our recent troubles with South Korea. You stepped into conflicts where, in truth, I imagine you had far better things to do with your time.”

The Secretary smiled, thanking his assistant as they brought them both the tea. “Well, thanks, but it’s my job. I do what I can.”

“Your expertise was invaluable.”

“As was yours. As much as I appreciate all of this flattery, I imagine there is something you want from me.”

Mycroft smiled a little. “I’m afraid I do, but I think I come with a fair trade. There’s a project I believe I can help you with.”

“And what’s that?”

“In your constituency, I’ve come to understand there is a £3.5million highways project which you are quietly backing but as yet hasn’t got any Government support.”

The Secretary nodded. “You’d be right. It would bring a lot of jobs and infrastructure to the area. But in my position, I haven’t got a lot of time to be worrying about my constituency. Or defying the Government, for that matter. It’s not that the Government doesn’t support the plan, they just haven’t had time to look at it yet. To be honest, there isn’t a proper report written yet.”

“I don’t know if you’re aware, Mr Secretary, but my Government career began in the Department For Transport.”

“Really? No, I didn’t know that actually.” He frowned. “Actually, I don’t really know what it is you do.”

“Would you let me put the report together for you?” Mycroft asked, ignoring him. “I’m happy to do all of the leg-work on it. All it would require is your signature at the end of it.”

“How long will it take?”

“Not long. I’ve had a brief look at what has already been done by the local council and your own office. It just needs a little tweaking and pulling into one succinct document.”

“And you reckon you could do it?”

Mycroft nodded. “Thereby securing your re-election, I imagine.”

“It’s a safe seat anyway,” the Secretary said. “Though, it’d be useful anyway. That’s the problem with safe seats. You can do bugger all for your constituents and they still vote you in, but they spend all five years moaning about it. Go on then. Except, what do you want from me?”

“Those documents you gave me, relating to Rickard Luck and RL6. The information you provided is just the tip of the iceberg. I need a little more time to investigate, to ensure that when it all goes to court or to various enquiries, we really have got everything we need.”

“So you need me to stay silent?”

Mycroft nodded. “Yes.”

“Yeah, no problem. I’ve done that anyway. You didn’t need to buy my silence. That’s why I gave it to you anyway. I knew you were discreet.”

“How did you come across it anyway?” Mycroft asked.

“Someone working on the Saudi arms deal. They were the main go-between for most of the negotiations. They were copied in to a lot of those emails, and then others were sent to him. He knew how to make friends it looks like. He was gathering evidence himself. It looks like he didn’t like what was happening.”

“They were the main go-between?” Mycroft asked.

The Secretary nodded. “Yeah. Sad state of affairs, actually. He’d already died by the time I got hold of all those papers. They were given to me by his wife. Apparently it was all locked in their safe at home and she found them. The bloke had been dead about nine months by then.”

“How did he die?”

“Suicide. Jumped from a bridge in Southampton somewhere, I think.”

“Southampton.” The same part of the country RL6 was based. Mycroft nodded. “A very sad state of affairs,” he agreed.

“Anyway, you’ve got my silence, Mycroft,” the Secretary said. “And I’d love my roads.”

Mycroft smiled and stood up, shaking his hand. “You’ll get your roads,” he agreed. “And thank you.”

“Any time. And I mean that, actually. It’s been good working with you.”

Mycroft forced a smile and left his office. His face fell as soon as he closed the door and began to walk back to the car. He was running out of fingers to count the number of murders and attempted murders Rickard Luck now had fingerprints all over.

* * *

**February 2007.**

**Location: Coeur de Lion Offices, Mayfair, London.**

His morning meetings with Anthea always came at the same time. She’d always be there to give him a cup of tea or coffee and share the agendas with him. But the morning after the 14th, something was different.

Mycroft glanced up from his laptop at her and down to where she placed the tray. A glint of gold shone from her ring finger. “Congratulations,” he murmured.

She glanced at him and shrugged. “I hate it,” she said as she slid into her chair. “I don’t really see why I need to demonstrate our engagement. He doesn’t have to wear a ring.”

“Then why are you wearing it?” Mycroft asked.

“It cost a lot of money. I’m wearing it out of obligation. I’ll take it off once he trades it up for a wedding ring.”

Mycroft managed a half smile. “Congratulations nonetheless.”

“Thank you,” she said. She toyed with the ring for a moment. “I know you don’t like him.”

“But you do. That’s what matters.” She nodded, forcing a smile. Mycroft frowned. “Anthea?” he pressed.

“I know it’s a personal matter,” she said.

“Yes, but if something is wrong that you would like to discuss…”

“I love him,” she said. “I know you don’t like him. I think you’re right to dislike and mistrust him. Not because he’s doing anything wrong now but because of his past actions.”

“My opinions don’t matter.”

“No. But your knowledge does. Will you meet with him again?”

“You’re concerned he’s going to betray you,” Mycroft murmured, watching her.

She nodded. “What if him not killing me was all part of some elaborate ploy?”

“I doubt it.”

“The possibility is there.”

Mycroft nodded, conceding that. “I suppose so.” He frowned. “This is a job a father is traditionally supposed to do, isn’t it? Asses the groom to see how honourable he is.”

“And I have you,” Anthea said. “And you’re far more useful than my father would have been. He wouldn’t have known a dishonourable man if they slapped him on the face. He trusted too easily.”

“There are few too honourable men out there.”

“Yes,” she said softly. “How many do you think you’ve met?” she asked.

Mycroft swallowed. Just one, he thought. “Send Arnou in. Of course I’ll meet with him for you.”

“Thank you,” she said standing up. “I owe you.”

“Not at all. It’s for my benefit too. Don’t bring him in specifically to meet with me.”

“I know. I’ll tell him he’s meeting me before we go out for dinner and then I’ll be running late.”

Mycroft nodded. She forced a smile and got up to leave. Mycroft frowned as he watched her go. He knew Arnou was punching above his weight, and he didn’t deserve a woman like her. But he was pleased to see her happy, because in their line of work, relationships were hard to find and to keep.

An hour later, following a message from Anthea, he walked out of his office into the main working area. Arnou was stood by the water dispenser.

“Arnou?” Mycroft called to him.

He looked up. “Mr Holmes. Hello.” Mycroft walked over to him and shook his hand. “Anthea around?” Arnou asked.

“Just taking a phone call, I believe. It might take a while. Join me for a drink.”

“Of course.”

Mycroft led him to his office, closing the door behind him. He wandered over to the small round table with his decanter on it and poured them each a brandy. He handed Arnou a glass. “Congratulations on your pending nuptials.”

Arnou smiled. “Thank you,” he replied, clinking his glass to Mycroft’s before taking a sip. “We’re very happy.”

“So I see.”

“Will you be coming?”

“Ah. No. I doubt it. Anthea knows it’s not my place.”

“She likes you.”

Mycroft nodded. “I’m aware. Anthea has become very important to me. And I wanted to ensure your motives.”

“My motives?”

“It wasn’t all that long ago when you were out for her blood.”

“It’s changed.”

“Has it?” Mycroft raised a disbelieving eyebrow as he went to sit down behind his desk, letting the silence linger as he took his seat, sitting back in it. “I know your background, Mr Fortier. One moment you intended to kill her, the next you take her out for a drink. I won’t apologise for being suspicious.”

Arnou stood behind the other chair, wavering. “I love her. She’s an amazing woman.”

“Your life will always be in danger.”

“I know.” Arnou quirked a smile. “Are you in love with her?”

“In love? No. I’m gay, Mr Fortier. I’m very fond of her.”

“She says you’re a good man.”

“She’s wrong. But she’s right about you.”

“How is that?”

“You’re not a good man either.”

“Well, she doesn’t like a quiet life.”

Mycroft gestured to the other seat. “I don’t have any reason to trust you, Mr Fortier.”

“I understand that," Arnou said as he sat down. 

“The reality is that I would never control Anthea’s actions or her choices. Her life is in her hands. Nonetheless, I realise that what I deduce about you during this conversation holds considerable weight for her.”

“What do you want to know?”

“When you operated under the name Safiy Nazari you were an Iranian spy working for the Russians as a double agent. And then you betrayed the Russians in favour for the Iranians only to give them both up to work for the French. With your credibility as an agent then destroyed when another Russian agent realised the truth, you were recruited by a separate organisation tasked with taking out anyone on the British and American side who knew about the secret oil trades on the border of Iran and Pakistan. Did you get some sort of glory from that?”

“I never killed anyone while I worked for them.”

Mycroft raised his eyebrows. “I suppose that makes it okay then,” he said sarcastically.

“They gave me protection. I did what I did in order to survive.”

“And what now? You’re putting her at risk, you do realise that? Considering you claim to love her, you’re not doing a good job of showing it.”

“She’s safe. No one is after me or her.”

“If she mattered one iota to you, you would leave her and let her be safe.”

“She’s safe,” Arnou insisted. “And It would rip my heart out to leave her.”

“It doesn’t matter. You do it anyway.”

Arnou shook his head. “I’ll never meet anyone like her. She’s intelligent, attractive, doesn’t take any bullshit.”

“That’s not much use to anyone if she’s dead.”

Arnou paused for a second, biting his lower lip. “Most of those who would track me are dead now too. And for those who are still alive, well who cares about a sculptor? The organisation has folded and those who know about it have bigger fish to fry. I know how to protect myself, and so does she. You wouldn’t have hired her otherwise. We both have different identities.”

“That may not always be enough to protect you.”

“We do what we have to do to survive. But trust me, if I heard one whisper that she was at risk… then I would leave her. I’d die for her. I’d spend the rest of my life hiding in a cave in Iraq if that was what it took to keep her alive. I know you doubt me, and I don’t blame you, and I regret most of my choices. She deserves far better than me.”

“Yes, she does,” Mycroft agreed. “But she saw fit to choose you anyway.”

Arnou nodded. “I will never let anything happen to her. I can only promise you that.”

“I think you may need to provide some sort of line about protection in your marriage vows,” Mycroft muttered. “Because once you take those vows, you better uphold them with everything you have. You’ve taken vows in the past, and you’ve disregarded most of them. But not these.”

“Mr Holmes, I swear to you. If I could wipe all of those slates clean, I would. I can’t. But she’s my only priority. And proposing to her wasn’t a decision I took lightly.”

Mycroft nodded and looked at his computer. “Anthea’s ready,” he murmured and a second later, she knocked on the door. “Come in,” he called out.

Anthea opened the door and smiled at them both. “I might have known you’d be drinking,” she said. She turned to Arnou. “Are you ready?”

“Yes, I am,” he stood up and smiled at her. He nodded to Mycroft. “Thank you for the drink,” he said as he began to walk out.

Anthea turned to Mycroft and he nodded. “He’s fine,” he said softly.

“Are you sure?” she asked.

“I’m sure.”

She mouthed a ‘thank you’ to him before turning and walking out, closing the door behind her. The silence reverberated around his office and he rubbed his forehead. He turned to his computer to manufacture more work to do.


	34. Losing Sway

**February 2007.**

**Location: The Oxo Tower, London.**

Mycroft stood by the windows, a glass of whiskey in his hand as he tried to block out the jazz band. He stared out over the twinkling lights of the city, across at St Paul’s Cathedral and the boats drifting on the Thames.

Sleep had been hard to come by lately, partly by choice, partly through his own inability to switch off. Sometimes he avoided his bed, opting to read on the settee instead, finding the distraction welcome. Because nothing was worse than lying in his bed on his back, arms crossed over his chest as his mind wandered through every piece of every puzzle he was trying to solve before inevitably it all landed on Greg Lestrade.

And then the second his mind fixed on Greg, he had no chance of sleep, because then he only hurt.

It would subside in time. He was fairly confident of that. But there was no guarantee. And so he was exhausted, so much so that he could feel the dark bags under his eyes. He knew in himself that his posture was sunken, his shoulders heavy, appearing to lack confidence. He was a tall man, but he felt shorter somehow, less able to use it to exude authority.

Anthea stood by his side, dressed in a full length navy dress, matched with diamond earrings. She was facing the other direction, glass of champagne balanced between her fingers. She was fresh as a daisy, ever-watchful, her eyes sparkling, lips turned up in a gentle, welcoming smile. Inside, Mycroft knew, she was watching it all with the efficiency of a top MI6 analyst.

“The Chief Whip just arrived,” she informed him, taking a sip of her drink and leaving a deep red lipstick stain on the rim.

Mycroft hummed, taking a slow sip of his own drink. “Let me guess,” he murmured, not turning around to look. “He has opted not to bring his wife along this evening.”

“Correct.”

Mycroft sighed, slowly turning around to observe the proceedings. “But no sign of the Prime Minister.”

“Not yet,” she said. “It’s early. Parliament is still in session and there are rumours the Conservatives are launching a surprise three-line whip this evening. They’re trying to catch the Labour Party off-guard.”

“Well, if the Chief Whip is here, they’re probably doing a good job.” Mycroft frowned, glancing around. “No signs of the leader of the opposition, so your supposition is certainly a good one.”

Anthea nodded. “I met with him this afternoon. Accidentally.”

Mycroft frowned. “Where?”

“He was meeting with the campaign chief.”

“And so the posturing for the General Election begins ahead of schedule.” Mycroft frowned and checked his watch. He was dressed in a tuxedo, along with the politicians and civil servants invited to the charity evening. He was supposed to be mingling, he supposed. But for now he was watching. “That’s the Secretary of State for Work and Pensions,” Mycroft told her, nodding his head. “Go on. What can you tell me about him?”

Anthea smiled, tilting her head back as he studied him. “Old tuxedo, worn two or three times. The cut of the collar indicates it was from the 2003 autumn season.”

“Very good. And?”

“He’s nervous. He’s drinking that very quickly, trying to get involved in conversations, but struggling.” She frowned. “I always thought he was a proficient public speaker.”

“He is,” Mycroft murmured. “Or was. He’ll be gone from that role in the next cabinet reshuffle and he knows it. He’s fallen from the Prime Minister’s favour. You see how he’s talking to the Chief Whip now?”

“Yes. He’s agreeing with everything he’s saying.”

Mycroft smiled. “And how often does the Chief Whip say anything remotely agreeable?”

Anthea laughed. “I’m a Labour voter,” she said. “I actually agree with him quite often.”

“I’m aware.”

“Does it bother you?”

“Not particularly,” Mycroft remarked. “Most of them are as bad as one another.”

Anthea nodded and finished her glass of champagne, putting it down onto one of the trays as a waiter walked past. She collected a new glass. “What are the aims for this evening?” she asked.

“I don’t have any,” Mycroft admitted. “I wasn’t even intending to come originally.”

“Why did you?”

Mycroft shook his head, sipping his whiskey. To get out of his flat was the truth. Even if it meant a horrible party with awful people, it was better than sitting there alone.

“Make a plan,” she said softly, leaning in towards him. “Make it a good one.”

Mycroft huffed, vaguely amused. “Make a plan,” he repeated. “Fine. Let’s play political chess, shall we?”

Anthea grinned at him. “Aims?” she asked.

“Is world domination not sufficient?” he joked, but he couldn’t manage the smile to go along with it.

She smiled. “It’s not,” she replied.

“Very well. What policy do you want to change, Anthea Boyette?”

“Anything?” she asked.

Mycroft nodded. “I can’t make any guarantees, of course.”

“The Prime Minister will be stepping down soon,” she replied, frowning.

“Yes.”

“Can we decide his successor?”

Mycroft shook his head. “I’m sure it’s a foregone conclusion already.”

“But can we guarantee it? Who would you like?”

Mycroft paused, glancing around. “None of them,” he admitted. “They’re better men than the Prime Minister. They won’t listen to all of my recommendations.” Not that the Prime Minister was eating out of his hand as much as he had done once… Another headache in itself. He’d been avoiding him, Mycroft knew. He supposed it was inevitable, since they didn’t agree on much, but it was certainly… inconvenient.

Mycroft nodded his head as Arnou walked in, tucking his invitation away in his pocket. He joined them both, placing a chaste kiss on Anthea’s cheek and shaking Mycroft’s hand.

“It’s good you could make it,” Mycroft told him.

Arnou smiled. “Thank you. Are they the silent auction prizes?”

Mycroft followed his gaze over to the long table and nodded. “I’ve already put a bid down for some wine.” He watched as the Prime Minister walked in, immediately greeted by some of his cabinet members. “Excuse me,” Mycroft said to them both, heading in his direction.

The Prime Minister looked up as he approached, smiling, his posture open and unassuming. “Mycroft!” he exclaimed as though pleased, but the pleasure didn’t meet his eyes. “I’m so glad you could make it. You put a bid in yet?”

“For some wine,” Mycroft replied.

“Go and put some more down. It’s all for a good cause.”

Mycroft nodded. “I will. May I have a word?”

The Prime Minister let out an exasperated sigh and nodded, clasping his shoulder and leading him to one side. “Work, work, work. Have a break.”

“I can’t,” Mycroft said.

“What’s up?”

“I heard a rumour you were pushing to replace Britain’s nuclear submarines.”

“What of it?”

Mycroft frowned. “So it’s true then.” It concerned him that he hadn't been told this by the Prime Minister directly.

The Prime Minister shrugged. “It’ll be public knowledge in two days’ time. Yeah, it’s true.”

“You’re pushing for strengthening our nuclear capabilities?”

“Yep.”

“You do realise I am pushing for nuclear disarmament in Iran? That your own Defence Minister is urging for financial sanctions on the country because of its nuclear programme?”

“Of course I know,” the Prime Minister said. “But our weapons are crucial. They’re going to get old and they need replacing. We might as well get on with it rather than waiting until they’re old and broken.”

“They’re not broken yet. You don’t need to do this now. Can’t you wait until the negotiations are complete?”

“Mycroft. Get a drink. Bid for something. Find an attractive woman, there are plenty here, and take her home and lighten up. There’s more to life than worrying about nuclear weapons.” The Prime Minister offered him a smug smile. “Shame about your assistant getting fixed up though,” he said, nodding his head towards Anthea and Arnou. "I always assumed you two…”

Mycroft shot him a look. “No,” he said.

“Mycroft. I’ll be resigning soon. And to be honest, I have better things to do than spend my last few months listening to you. Have a nice night.”

Mycroft watched as he walked away, collecting a drink as he went. Mycroft turned around and almost bumped into the Deputy Prime Minister. “Apologies,” he said. Christ, he needed to get some sleep.

“I heard all that and I agree with you,” the Deputy said, frowning at the Prime Minister's retreating back. “He’ll be gone in a few months time.”

Mycroft nodded. “So I’m given to understand but I’m learning not to trust a single word that comes out of his mouth.” The Deputy PM laughed and Mycroft shook his hand. “Mycroft Holmes,” he said. “Civil Servant in the Department for Transport.”

“And the chief authority on national security.”

Mycroft nodded. “Apparently,” he said. “Not that anyone listens.”

“I’ll be aiming to replace the Prime Minister when he finally steps down.”

“So I understand.”

“I know you’ve always had a close relationship with our Prime Minister.”

Mycroft nodded. “But it’s always been… tense. We’ve always disagreed on most of his policies.”

“We’ll have a talk, you and I, when he’s gone,” the Deputy said. He smiled and patted Mycroft’s shoulder. “Have a nice evening.”

“And yourself, sir.”

Mycroft watched him go before walking to the bar and buying himself another drink. He wandered back towards the window with it. He watched the band play, and to where Anthea and Arnou danced together, wrapped up in each other’s arms, laughing and talking.

His heart ached.

He put his empty glass down on the side and left the building, taking the stairs down to the bottom. He knocked on the car door. Max Karzai wound down the window and frowned at him. “Are you alright, boss?” he asked.

Mycroft nodded. “Have you got a cigarette?”

Max nodded and held out a packet and a lighter. Mycroft crossed the road, standing on the edge of the Thames, gazing down onto the reflections of the buildings in the water. He looked up at St Paul’s, standing bright and imposing on the skyline.

He’d lost it inside, he knew. He’d allowed his frustrations to get the better of him. He was exhausted, that he knew too. He could feel it through his whole body, the longing for some peace and some quiet, both from the world and inside his own head.

He stamped out the cigarette, but he lingered for a few moments, gazing up at the dark sky, tightening his coat around himself. From a few roads away, he could hear the police sirens and a minute later, an ambulance. It never stopped moving, this city of theirs. He couldn’t control even a centimetre of it.

He stared down at the water, at it flowing there, relentless, constant. He listened to the cars. The footsteps from tourists, of music from one of the boats on the river. The cold night was beginning to bring goosebumps up on his arms, but he stayed and watched his breath drift off into the air.

Eventually he got into the car. He got home and changed into his pyjamas and dressing gown. He had a hot tea on the settee, and put it down on the coaster before tilting his head back as he closed his eyes.

He rubbed his forehead. He knew he had to move. He had to get himself to bed. He had to try to sleep, even if he was unconvinced he'd get more than a few hours. He hauled himself off the settee and lay down underneath the chilly sheets.

Don’t think about him, he willed himself. Close your eyes and sleep. Don’t imagine waking up with him in your arms, your nose pressed against his neck, his hair tickling your eyelids. Don’t picture him sitting up and kissing you, of running your hands over his skin, of feeling his stubble, of stroking his hair. Don’t wish you could hold his hand and kiss his temple. That you could hold him, be with him, spend every day hearing his voice.

He couldn’t control his own mind. And it was driving him to distraction.

* * *

**March 2007.**

**Location: The Coeur de Lion Offices, Mayfair, London.**

The red phone rang and it caught Mycroft off guard for a split second. Very few people had access to the phone in Mycroft’s office. Expecting the very worst, Mycroft held it to his ear. “Mycroft Holmes,” he said, sitting on the edge of his seat, ready to move straight away if he was needed.

“Mycroft,” came the American accent. “It’s Rickard Luck.”

Mycroft swallowed, tightening his grip on the plastic. “How can I be of service?” he asked, reaching for a button so he could record the phone call.

“You invested in my company.”

“I did,” he replied tightly.

“I didn’t see that coming.”

Mycroft paused. “No, I suppose not. But it seemed a good option.”

“Yeah, it was. It’s worth a lot more now my Twisters have approval. Savvy move by you.”

Mycroft frowned. “Do you make personal calls to everyone who invests in RL6?”

“No, just you. You’re a bit special.”

“I’ll take it as a compliment then.”

“You should. I have a meeting. I’ll try to make some more money for you. Catch up with you soon.” And he hung up before Mycroft could say another word.

Well, the plan had worked to some extent, Mycroft thought. He had Luck’s attention. He wasn’t sure Luck was convinced by his investment though. He played the recording of the conversation back, trying to listen out for weaknesses or double-meanings but there wasn’t anything to find.

Luck wanted, or needed, Mycroft to work for him not against him, he was sure of that. He had already proved he could pave the way for his weapons to get Government approval. And yet, the doubt lingered. He felt sure Luck was playing him in the same way he was playing Luck.

* * *

 

It was a week for phone calls Mycroft didn’t want to answer.

There it was, that name flashing up on his phone: Greg Lestrade. Mycroft narrowed his eyes. He swallowed as he answered. “Mycroft Holmes.”

“We’ve caught the guy who barged me into the Thames,” Greg snarled down the line, and Mycroft closed his eyes.

“Who was it?” he asked.

“Edmund Bullock.”

Mycroft frowned. “Your PC.”

“Yeah. He said to tell you Operation Indigo.” Mycroft’s chest clenched, gripped by fear, apprehension, anxiety, everything he could possibly feel. Greg. He’d led Greg into this, left him teetering on the edge of shark infested waters… “Mycroft? You going to explain it to me? Explain how I nearly died because of some fucking investigation you’re involved in?”

“Forget you heard it,” Mycroft said softly, because no, he couldn’t explain. Because yes, Greg nearly died because of his investigation. Because he'd been too weak to say no to him. Too happy to refuse the relationship he'd known was doomed. 

“My own PC tried to kill me over it. So no. I won’t just forget it. Tell me what the hell is going on.”

“I can’t.”

“I don’t care. Give me whatever paperwork you need and I’ll sign it.”

“This is not your fight.”

“Yes, it is,” Greg snapped at him down the line. “Like it or not, I’m involved.”

“No. You are not. I have seen to that,” Mycroft replied. “Do not mention the name of the operation again.” He lifted the phone from his ear and he hung up. The words reverberated in his head. _Explain how I nearly died because of some fucking investigation you’re involved in._ Nearly died.

And hearing his voice again, even if it was full of justified anger and even if that anger was directed at him… It was painful. Painful because that voice was like music, like choral choirs, like birds and tranquillity.

Edmund Bullock.

Mycroft frowned, tapping his index finger on the desk. Edmund Bullock. Well, it made sense now he came to think of it, that one of Greg’s own PCs would be the one to be passing on information. Presumably he put the bug in Greg’s coat. The risk had been there all along, that Mycroft had known. He and Sherlock had suspected a leak at New Scotland Yard.

He expected the betrayal cut Greg somewhere deep. Mycroft rubbed his face. Greg deserved so much more than all of this.

* * *

Jim Braum landed back from his trip to South Africa two days later. He looked rested as he put a postcard of an elephant down on Mycroft’s desk. Mycroft raised his eyebrows, turning it over to see there was no writing on it.

“I didn’t get round to filling it in,” Jim said with a wide smile, sitting down opposite Mycroft’s desk without an invitation. “Are we free to talk?” he asked.

Mycroft nodded. “Anthea’s meeting someone. How did it go?”

“He’ll do the job. He pushed the money offer though. Wanted the top of your budget.”

“I expected he might, from what you said about him. What were his terms?”

“He didn’t have many. He’ll provide the weapon. He wants one fake run-through in advance. Cash upfront.”

“What does he intend to do with the money?”

“Plough it into protecting endangered animals.”

“Of course he does,” Mycroft muttered. “Well, I suppose if he’s made a-living out of killing human beings, it’s only right he makes an effort protecting other creatures. His terms are acceptable.”

“And my terms?” Jim asked.

Mycroft frowned, sitting back in his chair. “I wasn’t under the impression you had any,” he said, bemused.

“That I won’t go to jail.”

“No, Jim, you will not be going to jail.”

“You promise me that?”

Mycroft nodded. “I promise,” he said. “I can’t promise a lot, of course, but that is one thing I can manage.”

“How are we playing this?”

“I’m going to set up a small team who will announce the man’s death to be a suicide. The clean-up operation will all be in hand. Your friend can carry out the deed and then get the next flight back to South Africa.”

Jim nodded. “Sounds fair enough to me.”

“Does it?” Mycroft asked.

“Yeah. You seem to think this guy’s death is the best thing to do so I’ll take your word for it.”

Mycroft managed a hollow chuckle. “It appears I say jump…”

“You’ve not done me wrong so far,” Jim said.

“The possibility is always there.”

“Yeah. It is. But not yet.”

Mycroft nodded. “Thank you, Jim,” he said softly. “For your time and for your loyalty.”

* * *

Mycroft sighed as he sat down at his desk, running through his emails. He was counting down the days and the weeks until the Prime Minister finally stepped down, granting him the opportunity to form new connections with someone else.

He glanced up at the knock on the door and Anthea walked in, her face grave. “I need to talk to you,” she said.

Mycroft nodded and she took the other chair, toying with her engagement ring. “Greg Lestrade was nearly shot at today,” she said. “His surveillance teams caught the man before a shot could be fired. He doesn’t know.”

Mycroft leaned back in his chair. He swallowed. “Are you sure?” he asked.

Anthea nodded. “He has no idea. The man was following him into the Yard. I’m dealing with it.”

“Good. Thank you.”

“Do you want the specifics?”

Mycroft shook his head. “No.”

“It may form part of the investigation. You may see something I haven’t.”

“I don’t want anything to do with monitoring his safety, Anthea.”

She narrowed her eyes at him. “I don’t understand,” she said.

“You are not paid to understand my decisions, only to obey them.”

She frowned at him and stood up. “Fine,” she muttered, walking out of his office. Mycroft rubbed his face.

He inhaled deeply before taking hold of his phone to call Jim Braum. “Yes, sir?” he answered.

“Jim. How prepared is your friend?”

There was a pause before he answered. “He can be here as soon as you need him,” he replied.

“Then let’s make it sharpish, shall we?” Mycroft murmured. “I need him in the country as soon as possible.”

“The job’s on then?”

“Oh, the job most certainly is.” Mycroft hung up and walked out of the building.

He was early for his appointment with the Secretary of State. No other occasion had filled him with quite so much dread as this one. If the Secretary scuppered his plans then he would be forced to carry them out without legal backing and it would make everything much more… complex.

He was finally let in and he shook the man’s hand. “Are our conversations completely secure?” Mycroft asked as he was shown into a green leather seat.

The Secretary nodded, crossing one leg over the other. “This room is checked every day for bugs.”

Mycroft raised an eyebrow. “You’re rather paranoid.”

“I’m afraid so. Can you tell me what this is regarding?”

“I need you to authorise an execution under section seven of the Intelligence Services Act 1994.”

The Secretary visibly paled. He stood up and went over to his desk. “I think we may need a cup of tea for this conversation,” he said, pressing a button. His secretary walked in a moment later and he asked her for a pot of tea and some biscuits. With an amused smile, he sat back down. “Well, you do cut to the chase. Remind me of your job again.”

“I’m an adviser to MI5 and MI6,” Mycroft said. “I have the highest possible privileges and authorisation in both organisations.”

“I thought section seven was a bit of a myth,” the Secretary murmured. “Well, not a myth, exactly, it’s there and plain to see. But I thought the idea anyone would ask for my authorisation was… well, frankly something out of a James Bond book.”

Mycroft managed a cool smile. “It’s not been done for a long time, admittedly.”

“An execution,” the Secretary muttered. “Good God.”

They fell silent as the assistant walked in and put down a teapot and plate of biscuits. The Secretary waited until she left the room before pouring them each a drink.

“Does the Prime Minister know?” the Secretary asked.

“No.”

“I assume he needs to be informed.”

“That’s entirely up to you, sir,” Mycroft said. “I’d advise against it. He can be… indiscreet.”

“Remind me of the laws.”

“There is legal provision for lethal force to be used with Government authorisation in times of emergency or crisis which cause danger to the UK or its citizens.”

“And is that the case here?” the Secretary asked.

Mycroft hesitated for a moment, dunking a biscuit into his tea and taking a bite. “Section seven of the Intelligence Services Act offers protection to any spies carrying out bugging and bribery. It also offers protection to those who become embroiled in far more serious matters, such as murder, kidnap or torture. As long as the spy has approval by yourself, or whomever else is involved in your position.”

“I suppose the pertinent matter is who exactly are you killing?”

“The chief executive of weapons manufacturing company RL6.”

The Secretary narrowed his eyes. “Rickard Luck,” he muttered.

“You know of him?”

“Of course. Why do you want him dead?”

“For crimes including, and not limited to, spying on and threatening MI6 agents. Carrying out murders and attempted murders, committing atrocities on a global scale and…” Mycroft pulled a piece of paper out and handed it over. “Threatening the lives and liberties of the UK’s citizens through use of a terrorist organisation calling itself the MORnetwork.”

“I’ve never heard of it.”

“You will, sir,” Mycroft said. “The MORnetwork has thus far been responsible for the killing of two Russian agents on British soil, for an elaborate break-in to the National Archives, for the killing of an MI5 agent who worked in my offices, for-”

“-Who?”

“I’m sorry?”

“Which agent?” the Secretary asked.

“Danny Finck,” Mycroft said.

“Ah yes, I recall. Good chap, him.”

“The MORnetwork, operating under Rickard Luck’s orders, is also responsible for the attempted murder of one of the Metropolitan Police’s senior detectives,” Mycroft continued. “The most recent activity included an attempt on his life using a gun. We believe the perpetrator would have taken out every single witness in the area as part of the killing. The MORnetwork is operating under Rickard Luck’s instructions. He is a threat to this nation. And I’m afraid to say that time in prison alone would not be suitable. He would simply order the MORnetwork from prison. No fines a judge could order in court would take away a sufficient amount of his wealth. He would work from prison and he would kill from prison.”

“I need to review everything you’ve said,” the Secretary said. “This is not something I take lightly.”

“Of course,” Mycroft said, opening his briefcase and retrieving the wad of documents. He handed them over. “I’m afraid I cannot leave them with you for reasons pertaining to national security. If you are agreeable, I would like to sit and wait in here while you read them. I can also answer any questions you may have.”

“Very well.” The Secretary sighed and finished his tea. He offered Mycroft a bemused smile. “Then I suppose we will need much more tea.”

It took nine hours. Nine hours of debate, conversation, questions and answers. But Mycroft left with a signed agreement in his briefcase. He put it down on his desk, straightening out one of the corners which had folded over.

He’d ordered the killing of more than one person during his life. A few had been during his work for the CIA. A few had been for MI6. None of those had left him feeling particularly apologetic. One death had brought him sleepless nights, both before and after. But this one… he almost thought that the prospect of this one brought him very real pleasure.

As he tucked the paper away in his safe behind the portrait of the Queen, he wondered when his conscience had become quite so black and hollow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, so parts of this towards the end are a bit James Bond-esque and out of the realms of reality. Actually, I bloody /hope/ they're out of the realms of reality. But this is fiction and a bit of fun. Please don't hunt me down for operating a creative licence!


	35. Execute

**April 2007.**

**Location: A building opposite The Diogenes Club, Pall Mall, London.**

Jim Braum’s former army colleague was a man of few words. Tall, with deep cheekbones, he was brisk and efficient. There was a lingering resentment deep within his eyes, something arching back to his time during the army, Mycroft supposed.

Jim had assured Mycroft that the only reason he agreed to the job was the substantial financial offer would do a wonderful job for portecting the rhinos. Of all of the ways Mycroft’s money could be used, that was one he’d never expected.

He watched as the man adjusted his gun, pointing into Mycroft’s room at the Diogenes.

“It’s concerning just how possible this is,” Mycroft muttered to Jim, frowning.

“What, that someone could shoot you from here?” Mycroft nodded. Jim shrugged. “He’s good at his job. There’s not a lot of people who can make the shot.”

“Mmm. Comforting,” Mycroft muttered, walking to stand by the window. He glanced down at the rifle, perfectly lined up with his room at the Diogenes. He pressed his lips together. “I should go,” he decided. “Can I leave this in your hands, Jim?” he asked.

Jim nodded to him. “You want a lift?”

“No. Thank you. I think I’ll walk home.” He nodded his head to them both and left, wandering down the roads to Crusader House. It was warm in the sun, the ground still damp from showers earlier that morning. Mycroft twirled his umbrella round in his hand, glancing in the shop windows as he went.

He popped into a small café and ordered himself a coffee and a toasted teacake. He sat by the window, staring outside, running the plan over in his mind until it all felt secure.

* * *

 

Oliver Cale brought a few copies of The Times with him when he arrived at Mycroft’s Whitehall office that evening. Mycroft let him in, pouring him a whiskey. “Your deadlines are over then?” Mycroft asked.

“Yes, all done,” Oliver said, taking a seat and the drink. He handed the newspapers over. “Page 29 in yesterday’s paper and page 17 the day before.”

Mycroft frowned and sat down, flicking through them. “I probably already saw them,” he said. “I read The Times every day.” He read the respective reports surrounding rumours the Prime Minister would be stepping down in the next two months. “I haven’t got anything to add to this.”

Oliver frowned at him. “Come off it. I know you. You’re the king of rumour and secret knowledge. You must know something.”

“From this office?” Mycroft asked. “Hardly. I deal with legislation and some other matters.”

“You’ve got some legislation you want me to write about then?”

Mycroft smiled. “No. Something better.”

“Better than black sites?”

Mycroft shrugged as he picked up a few pieces of paper, handing them over to Oliver to read. Oliver pursed his lips and Mycroft drank his whiskey, waiting. “You’re reporting RL6 to the Serious Fraud Office?”

Mycroft nodded. “Yes. We have more than enough evidence. If you’d like the story first, you’re welcome to it. I’ll tell you when I’m about to hand the investigation over and then you can put in whatever calls you need to RL6.”

“Will I get access to the reports?”

Mycroft nodded. “After I’ve sent them to the Serious Fraud Office, I suppose that can be arranged.”

“Seems like a big investigation.”

“It was,” Mycroft said. “I’m sure there will be a few prison sentences, significant fines and a lot of questions. The evidence is clear-cut. A trial would hardly be worth it.”

“Unless you’re a lawyer.”

Mycroft smiled. “No one wins in a court of law but the lawyers.”

“Yes, I suppose so. How are you keeping?”

“I’m fine.” Mycroft glanced at him. “You’ve finally settled down, I see.”

Oliver laughed. “I will never know how you do that. I have. He’s a barrister, actually.”

Mycroft raised his eyebrows. “Congratulations?”

“It’s early days.”

“And yet you live with him.”

“Early-ish,” Oliver conceded. “And you?”

“My work takes up far too much of my time. I’ll be in touch when you can file your report. It may be a last-minute phone call, you should be prepared.”

Oliver nodded. “Can I take these?” he asked, holding up the papers.

“If you ensure you keep them to yourself.”

“Consider it done.” They each stood up and shook hands.

“I’ll be in touch,” Mycroft told him and he watched him leave He put the glasses down on the tray to be taken out to be washed up and then collected his coat to leave.

Jim was his driver for the evening, and Mycroft climbed into the passenger seat beside him. “Home, please,” Mycroft murmured. “And two days.”

Jim glanced at him. “Two days?”

“That should be enough time to get everything together. We’ll do a run-through tomorrow and the following day, we carry it out.”

Jim nodded. “Yes, sir,” he murmured. They sat in silence as they drove and Mycroft thanked him as he got out of the car and headed into his building.

* * *

On the day before the execution, Mycroft was stood in his room at the Diogenes turning on the cameras while Jim was on his phone by the window with a pair of binoculars.

“He can see us,” Jim said. “The cameras are all working. Can you hear us?” he asked down the phone. 

Mycroft glanced at him and Jim gave him a thumbs up. “Right,” Mycroft muttered. “If I sit in this chair here…” He sat down, glancing around the room. “Jim, you should be our… guest.”

Jim laughed and took the other seat, the phone still held up to his ear. “Am I in range?” he asked. “Yep. All good. What’s the signal then?”

Mycroft frowned. “My life being threatened is as good as any. He won’t just barge in here to do it, he’ll want to talk first. But I’m afraid I can’t give you more than that. My life is in your hands, Jim.”

“Just a sec,” Jim said, hanging up the phone and staring across at Mycroft. “Your life in my hands?”

“It’ll have to be,” Mycroft replied. “You will be in that room over the road and in charge of when your friend pulls the trigger. I will be here with nothing to protect me but you in another building. I suppose I’m relying on your loyalty.”

Jim nodded. “You’ve got it,” he said.

“I hope so.”

“Who is he?”

“His name is Rickard Luck. He runs a weapons manufacturing company. He has committed, via his numerous agreements, various atrocities and fraud on numerous occasions. He has also been responsible for ordering Detective Inspector Lestrade’s death, at least twice that we know of.”

“Is that why he’s not been around lately? You’re hiding him?”

Mycroft paused. “DI Lestrade and I have ended our… association with one another. He won’t be around at all in future.”

“Damn,” Jim muttered. “Sorry to hear that.”

Mycroft shook his head. “Forget about it. Your only focus should be the mission tomorrow. It’s vital that everything goes to plan.”

“What is the plan after he’s dead?” Jim asked.

“These walls are sound-proof. I’m 99 per cent certain no one will hear the gunfire. I will call for Cliff Crenshaw and Edward Palfrey from my office, who have spent the past year tracking Luck. They will help with the clean-up and the body, and it will all be set up as a suicide. There is nothing for you to worry yourself with.”

Jim bit his lip. “Jesus,” he muttered. “When I met you, I never imagined this is what we’d end up doing.”

Mycroft shook his head. “Nor I,” he admitted.

* * *

It was The Morning. Mycroft wore his most expensive suit, complete with a new navy tie, his antique pocket watch, his platinum cufflinks. He studied himself in the mirror, combing his hair.

There was some apprehension there, of course there was. But by the end of the day, he thought it would all be over. He thought everything would be okay. Everyone knew their jobs. But still. There was a possibility he’d judged it wrong. There was a possibility, however slim, that Rickard wouldn’t do as Mycroft expected him to. There was every possibility he wouldn’t even turn up for the meeting Mycroft had set up.

Rickard Luck was the corrosive element. Like dropping gasoline on a fire. But he could soon be gone. Eradicated, the same way he expunged others.

Mycroft got into his office at the same time he normally did. He held his morning meeting with Anthea in the same way as always. He collected up the RL6 files and handed them over to Anthea. “I need you to take these to the Serious Fraud Office at…” He checked his watch. “11am.”

She nodded. “Of course,” she said. “Are you sure you’re ready to hand it over?”

“Perfectly sure. It’s the right time to do this.”

“I can’t believe it’s nearly over,” she murmured. “I can’t believe it’s taken this long.”

Mycroft managed a smile. “He’s a difficult character,” he said. “And it was a tricky investigation.”

“And you would like me to take this myself?” she asked. “Personally?”

Mycroft nodded. “Max can give you a lift,” he said.

“I can drive,” she replied.

“Thank you,” he said. “For all of your work on this investigation. Your work has been exemplary.”

She smiled. “Thank you.” She patted the pile of papers. “How many pages is this?”

Mycroft laughed. “Hundreds,” he said. “And there’s more besides.” He nodded his head towards the boxes behind her. She frowned and turned around. “And you filed all those yourself?” she asked.

“Occasionally I can organise my own files.”

She raised her eyebrows. “That thought strikes fear in my heart,” she said.

“Be nice,” he murmured. “Today is a good day.”

She smiled. “I suppose I should check everything is in order before I take these to the Serious Fraud Office.”

“11am,” Mycroft reminded her. “No later.”

“It doesn’t take me half the time it takes you to organise files, sir,” she said.

Mycroft nodded and turned to his laptop. Anthea and Loretta collected all the boxes and carried them through to Anthea’s office so she could confirm everything was in order. Mycroft knew it would be, but he appreciated her thoroughness.

Anthea left the building at 10.30pm. Mycroft called for Loretta to join him. She frowned as she sat in the chair.

“In one hour’s time, I have a meeting with Rickard Luck of RL6 Industries,” Mycroft informed her. “I want you to call him directly on his mobile at 11.20am to inform him the meeting is cancelled because I am at The Diogenes Club in Pall Mall. It is vital to relay that particular piece of information to him.”

“The Diogenes Club in Pall Mall,” she echoed.

“Yes. I also need you to tell Anthea that the lunchtime meeting with the Prime Minister was re-scheduled and that I am already there.”

“Yes, sir,” Loretta replied. She didn’t question him. Mycroft appreciated that about her.

He checked his watch. “I’m going to The Diogenes now. You need to call Luck on this number…” He scribbled it out on a piece of paper and handed it to her.

“11.20am at at The Diogenes Club.”

Mycroft smiled. “Correct. Have a good day, Mrs Freeman.”

He held the door to his office open to her before collecting his umbrella and strolling out of the building. Jim was waiting in the car and Mycroft took a seat in the back. They drove in silence while Mycroft contacted Cliff Crenshaw and Edward Palfrey to inform them everything was progressing as planned.

“Message me to let me know the cameras and sound are working,” Mycroft told Jim. “And good luck.” Mycroft frowned. “That’s a poor choice of words,” he muttered. “Break a leg or… I don’t know.”

“You too, boss,” Jim said, smiling at him.

Mycroft took a deep breath and got out of the car. He walked to the door and flashed his pass. He glanced around at everyone in the building. A few members of the security services were there, but no one from the Government. Not yet, anyway.

He walked into the private room he rented out. Jim had marked where the chairs needed to be on the floor with a strip of paper. Nothing had moved. Mycroft had requested the room not be vacuumed for three days, but he wasn’t sure whether his request would be adhered to. It turned out, it was.

He picked the papers up and threw them away.

The two chairs were opposite each other, divided by the round table with the decanter and glasses on top of it. He checked the decanter of brandy, and ensured the glasses were clean and free from fingerprints.

And then he sunk into his chair. He tapped his fingers against the arm rests. There wasn’t anything he could now except wait. He was almost certain Rickard Luck would come to him. He glanced down at his phone. He had a message from Jim to tell him they could see him and hear him. Everything was in place. Everything except Rickard Luck.

Mycroft swallowed. He tilted his head back and crossed his legs over at his ankles.

Time went by faster than Mycroft imagined it would, considering that he checked it every five minutes. He played every possible scenario over in his head. He toyed with his posture, with keeping relaxed or trying to appear in control and in charge.

He adjusted the position of the decanter, moving it so he would be able to see Rickard Luck more clearly.

Waiting, he sat in the chair. Luck didn’t arrive until 1.35pm. Mycroft’s eyes flicked up as the door handle open and the man sauntered in, a smug smirk on his lips.

“Mycroft,” he said with a grin. “You cancelled our meeting so I thought I’d bring the meeting to you.”

Mycroft gave him a once over. He had a gun tucked into his coat pocket. “What an honour,” Mycroft said, holding his hand out and gesturing to the chair opposite him. “Please.”

Luck shut the door and slumped down in the chair, glancing around the room. “Weird fucking place,” he said. “With the silence and all. Like walking into a library.”

“Mmm,” was all Mycroft replied. “Can I get you a drink?” he asked.

“Yeah. That brandy there?”

“It is.”

“Then that’ll do me.”

Mycroft stood up, taking the lid off the decanter. He poured them each a glass. He took two steps towards Rickard and handed him the glass. Rickard’s hand snaked around his wrist, holding it tightly. A little of the brandy spilled over Mycroft’s fingers. Mycroft kept his face impassive.

“Where’s your boyfriend?” Rickard asked.

Mycroft frowned. “Who?” he asked.

“You know who.”

“At work, I imagine,” Mycroft muttered.

Rickard let go of his wrist and Mycroft turned to sink back into his chair. He took out his pocket handkerchief, wiping his fingers clean.

“Call him,” Rickard said.

Mycroft frowned. “I’m sorry?”

“Your cop boyfriend. Call him. Tell him to come here.”

“I really don’t think-”

“-That this has anything to do with him? I don’t care.” Rickard leaned slightly to the side as he retrieved his gun from his pocket. “Call him. Get him here.”

Mycroft paused for a moment. Greg would be safe, of course he would. If Mycroft didn’t call him then Rickard would be killed before he even had a chance to get answers from him. Slowly, he took his phone out of his pocket, scrolling through his contacts until he found Greg’s name.

He wished he didn’t have to speak to him under these circumstances. They were the worst imaginable.

“Lestrade,” Greg answered after a few rings.

Mycroft glanced over at Rickard Luck, and at the gun still pointed in his direction. “I require your assistance,” he said.

“I’m busy.”

“I need you to come round to the Diogenes Club in Pall Mall.”

“No,” Greg muttered. “I don’t just do what you tell me to do.”

“Greg.”

“Stop bossing me around for God’s sake. I’m not going anywhere. I’m at work. Busy.”

Across from him, Rickard had his eyebrows raised, an amused smirk on his lips.

“Greg,” Mycroft pressed. “It is a matter of some importance.”

“I don’t care.”

“Please.”

There was a pause. And then. “Fine. Fine. Where am I going again?”

“St James Street in Pall Mall. It is a few doors down from the Carlton Club.”

“Fine. But this better be something important. Because if it’s not, I’m not picking the phone up to you ever again.”

“Understood.”

Greg hung the phone up. Mycroft lowered it from his ear. “There,” he said.

“Lovers’ tiff?” Rickard asked, sipping from his brandy. Suddenly Mycroft wished he’d unloaded a pot full of arsenic into it.

Mycroft silently stood up and walked to the corner of the room to the chair there. He dragged it over, to a position he knew would be out of the sniper’s range.

“I don’t see why he needs to be here,” Mycroft said as he retook his seat. “I think this is between the two of us.”

“Yeah, but it’s not between the two of us, is it, Mycroft? It never has been. You think you’re so… clever. You and Hadrian. Nickolay and Tatiana Garzone. All of you. All so fucking smart.”

“I am smart,” Mycroft muttered, a cool smile on his face.

“I thought you were working against me. Then you invested in the company and… well, for a few minutes I thought perhaps you’d changed your mind. Bet you thought you were so clever manipulating me. The fact is, you’re nothing to me. You’re a flea. Bloody annoying and I kept ending up covered in itchy bites in the morning. But it’s not easy to find the little blighter. So the flea keeps trying to suck me dry, and I’m a great source of food, but eventually I put my bedding in the washing machine and… he, the flea, just drowns.”

“What a metaphor,” Mycroft muttered. “I assure you, I’ve been called far worse than that.”

“I don’t doubt it. Reckon I’ve called you far worse than that myself.”

“And now we’re here,” Mycroft said. “Are you proposing to kill me now or when Greg gets here?”

“Oh, I’ll wait for your boyfriend. I know you won’t tell me what I want to know. So, I figure I’ll threaten his life and you’ll answer all my questions. He’s your weakness.”

Mycroft pursed his lips. “Hardly,” he said.

Rickard laughed. “Oh Jesus. You reckon I’m going to believe that?” he asked. “Come off it.”

Mycroft looked up as the door opened. Greg looked just as Mycroft remembered, his face cool and calm but he was frowning just a little. Their eyes met, and Mycroft felt butterflies and… fear. Fear for Greg’s life even though he knew their interaction was being monitored by Jim Braum.

But he and Jim had never discussed what to do if someone else was brought into the conversation. Mycroft could only hope Jim realised Greg was a hostage and not cannon fodder. If anyone was to leave the room alive, Mycroft wanted it to be Greg. He doubted Jim knew that.

“Take a seat, Detective Inspector,” Rickard said, pointing towards the vacant chair. Greg caught Mycroft’s eye and Mycroft tilted his head towards it in silent affirmation.

Greg was still watching him, frowning as he sat down. Then he turned his head to look at Rickard. Then the gun. Mycroft tried to catch his eye, to tell him it was okay, but Greg was fixed on the weapon.

“So glad you could join us,” Rickard said, watching Mycroft. He slowly turned his head to stare at Greg, but his hand on the gun didn’t waver. “Now, isn’t this pleasant? So, tell me, Detective Inspector. What do you know about Operation Indigo.”

“Nothing,” Greg said, his voice steady.

Mycroft swallowed.

“Pity,” Rickard said. He began to turn his wrist, the gun moving from pointing at Mycroft’s head to Greg’s. Mycroft glanced up at where he knew one of the cameras were. _Don’t let him kill Greg, whatever you do_ , he silently tried to relay to Jim. “Come on then, Mycroft,” Rickard said. I’m sure the situation’s pretty plain to you.”

“Yes, indeed,” Mycroft said, picking up his glass and taking a sip of his brandy to clear his dry throat.

“Let’s pour one for the Inspector, shall we?” Rickard said.

“I’m alright thanks,” Greg said.

“Mycroft do the honours.”

Mycroft leaned forward in his chair, silently pouring out the third glass. He topped his own up and then Rickard’s.

“Enjoy,” Rickard said to Greg, a grin on his face. Greg picked the glass up while Mycroft kept staring at Rickard, waiting for his next move.

“It’s good brandy,” the Rickard said. “Very old.” He looked at Greg. “Oh, I forgot. You don’t like brandy, do you Detective Inspector? How very stupid of me. If I had remembered, I would have brought you whiskey instead. Though I suppose you can’t be choosey in your current situation.” He sipped his own drink. “You drank brandy the night you and Mycroft played cards, didn’t you?”

Mycroft’s gut twisted uncomfortably at the thought that someone knew about the intimacies of his and Greg’s former relationship as well as he did. That those memories, those the two of them created, could be tainted by somehow by the fact that someone had heard them.

“It was very curious,” Rickard continued, turning to Mycroft. “I never for one second thought you had an ounce of humanity in you. And then you met Detective Inspector Lestrade. Oh and look how much  _humanity_  you had for him. Listening to the two of having sex on your sofa was quite beautiful. And here we are, Mycroft. You had a weakness and I exploited it. And I exploited it very well indeed.”

“Congratulations,” Mycroft muttered.

Rickard laughed. “Yeah, congratulations indeed. I deserve it. It’s taken a long time to get to you, Mycroft. I thought having Hadrian Kirkcudbright killed would be enough of a warning. But you don’t care about people’s lives, do you Mycroft?” He chuckled and looked at Greg, the gun swinging a little in his hand. “Well, until this one, I guess. What did you do, Detective Inspector? Are you very good at sucking cock? Oh you must be. Mycroft’s more of the silent type. You, now you, I’ve heard beg and ask for more. Maybe you’re not as good in bed as I imagined, come to think of it. Barely got a moan out of Mycroft here. What’s wrong with him, Mycroft? Is he not subservient enough for you?”

Mycroft glanced over to see Greg’s posture tense, his eyes narrowing. Stay calm, Mycroft willed him.

“What’s he like, Mycroft?” Rickard asked. “I’m very curious. Big, tough cop. Does he get on his hands and knees for you? Does he beg for you to fuck him harder? It’s a shame you’re both so vanilla. Always having anal sex in the bedroom where I couldn’t hear you. Lighten up, fellas. There’s a whole world out there.”

“We’re not together anymore,” Greg muttered.

Rickard blinked. “Oh? Why?”

“He doesn’t have feelings for me. You were right the first time. He doesn’t do feelings.” Greg turned to Mycroft, his expression cold. “You were right from the start. He doesn’t do humanity. He’s just very good at faking it.”

“He left you?” Rickard asked.

“Yeah.”

“Why?”

“Because he doesn’t have feelings for me. He liked the sex.”

“And you’re hurting?”

“Course,” Greg said. Mycroft glanced down at his glass. It hurt him to hear it. God, he was sorry. He wished it could have been different but it was what it was.

“Curious,” Rickard said. He turned the gun slowly from Greg and back to Mycroft. “Seems like I overplayed my hand in getting the Inspector to come here. It seems you care more about your life after all. I thought you were in love with him, but I can see how a man like you has carnal needs just like the rest of us. It’s very reassuring to know I was right all along. That you really are just a heartless, merciless, inhuman bastard. You’re a very good actor, Mycroft. But I suppose you have to be. In your line of work.”

“Quite,” Mycroft muttered, glaring at him.

“Come on, Mycroft. I know you’re dying to ask questions. Might as well do it before I kill you.”

“What can you tell me about the MORnetwork?” Mycroft asked.

“Very little. They’re incredibly efficient. But I barely know the lower rungs of the ladder, let alone the top of it.”

Mycroft raised his eyebrows. “I don’t believe that. A man with as much power as you possess. And with your contacts across the Middle East. And you’re taken in by an organisation with no face?”

“It’s a web, Mycroft. Got a job that needs doing, and they do it. Efficiently. They could have people all over the place. Or there could just be one man and his snipers. No idea. Got my money’s worth though. Took a long time for you to figure it out. Hell, you still have no idea who they are.” Rickard looked at Greg and then back at Mycroft. “Do you mind if I shoot the Inspector now, this conversation is better between you and me.” He swung the gun round, and in a split second his head was dropping back, blood running down the centre of his forehead, down over his nose. Mycroft glanced at the wall, to blood splattered over it.

Mycroft took a soft inhale of breath before turning to Greg. His hands were shaking. “What the actual hell?” Greg snapped.

Mycroft paused for a moment, wiping the sweat from his brow with his handkerchief, though it was still damp from the brandy. “He was a weapons manufacturer,” he replied, not sure what else to say. “He makes millions on the side selling weapons to the highest bidder. Iran, Iraq, Russia. He doesn’t particularly care about the consequences. Operation Indigo was responsible for bringing him down. We had hoped to do it without killing him, but then he started threatening me. Under the circumstances, his death was necessary. It is all quite a mess to clean up. It will take at least a week. I had hoped to keep him alive longer to find out about the MORnetwork, but beggars cannot be choosers.” He stood up. He had to call his team in to get rid of the body. And he had to get rid of Greg, because if he wasn’t careful, he wasn’t sure what he was going to do next. “Good afternoon, Detective Inspector.”

“Mycroft!”

“What?”

“You can’t just… I don’t… what the hell just happened?”

Mycroft stared at him. “Do not breath a word of this.”

“Or what?”

“I would hate for you to discover just how little humanity I have. Good afternoon.”

“You have to explain this to me.” Greg said, slamming his glass down on the table.

Mycroft opened the door. “I don’t,” he said coolly. They held one another’s eyes. Those beautiful brown eyes were so full of… hatred or something similar. Mycroft’s heart clenched. Greg stood up and stormed past him.

Mycroft glanced into the room and saw Cliff Crenshaw and Edward Palfrey standing there. He nodded to them and gestured them in. He shut the door.

“The equipment is all in the cupboard over there,” he said. “I imagine the key to Rickard’s hotel room is on his person. Is there anything you require?”

“No sir,” Cliff said. “The body will be in place in an hour.”

Mycroft nodded. “Very well,” he said. “If you encounter any stumbling blocks you call me immediately. Thank you for your assistance in this matter.”

With one final glance at Rickard, he turned and left his employees to it. He called Oliver as he walked out of the room. “Publish your story,” he said. “The Serious Fraud Office will begin its investigations this afternoon. You have the story exclusively.”

“Cheers, Mycroft,” Oliver said.

Mycroft hung up the phone. He met Jim and his friend by the car. Mycroft shook both their hands. “Thank you,” he murmured. Jim’s friend just nodded and got into his own car, driving away.

“All alright?” Jim asked.

Mycroft nodded. “So far,” he said softly. He had expected to feel some sort of relief. It hadn’t come yet. “Take me back to work, please,” he said, getting into the backseat.

* * *

It was the front page of The Times the next morning. _UK weapons manufacturer linked to genocide._

Mycroft read the report without the pleasure he’d hoped to feel. He felt numb. Empty.

At 3pm that afternoon, it was announced that Rickard Luck’s body had been found in his hotel room. Suspected suicide. Mycroft already knew the inquest would rule suicide. His staff in MI6 had already seen to that.

And Luck was gone and Greg was safe. But it didn’t change anything.

Luck had said it himself. Greg was Mycroft’s weakness. His Achilles heel. Mycroft loved him too much, cared too deeply. Greg had been his to defend and he’d done an appalling job of it.

No more. Greg was safer without him. Mycroft was safer without him. It didn’t change the breaking of his heart, but what did that matter?

Alone was the only viable option. Somehow, eventually, he knew he would be able to cage his heart so tightly that no one would be able to penetrate it. He knew it would take time, and it would take some lonely nights but he would get there.

He would not be disadvantaged by sentiment. He would not allow himself to care so much. Caring would no longer be his weakness, for he would not care at all. Loneliness would be his companion, and the world would be safer for it.

And he was resolved to it. The dark corners of his home would be his to live with, and his alone. One side of the bed would remain untouched. His hands would remain unheld, his lips unkissed, his passions unfulfilled.

It was better that way. There was simply no other option.

* * *

Jim joined Mycroft in the Coeur de Lion Offices the next morning, the newspapers covering Mycroft’s desk. They stared down at the front pages. _Disgraced weapons manufacturer ‘commits suicide’_ they proclaimed.

“Job well done then,” Jim said, flicking through The Sun. “I read the report in the Mail this morning. All that stuff he did…” He shook his head. “It was shocking.”

Mycroft nodded. “I wouldn’t ask you to do a job like that on someone who didn’t deserve it.”

“Yeah. I’m getting that.” Jim glanced at him. “You alright?” he asked.

Mycroft frowned, surprised. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“I dunno. The stuff he said about you and Detective-”

Mycroft held his hand up to silence him. “It’s over,” he said tightly. “And I will say no more about it. I didn’t call you hear to discuss my personal life.”

“Alright. What’s up?”

Mycroft paused for a moment. “You did an exemplary job,” he said. “You created a foolproof plan and enacted it accordingly. I’m quite certain you were in control of the situation at all times.” Mycroft smiled a little. “In fact, I know you were, because I had a video recorded of the room you were in and watched it back yesterday. Don’t worry,” he added quickly. “I’ve destroyed the tape. There is no evidence linking you to what happened yesterday.”

“Why record it?” Jim asked.

“I was curious. You’ve been my driver for quite some time, Jim. Seven years, in fact.”

“Time flies when you’re having fun,” Jim said with a grin. “I love driving those cars. They’re a work of art.”

“And you do so magnificently. Nonetheless, no one wants to accept a job where there is no prospect of career progression. And unfortunately, you now know one of my greatest secrets.”

“Mr Holmes, I’m not going to betray you.”

“Oh, I’m quite aware,” Mycroft said. “But I would like to offer you a promotion.”

“To what?” Jim asked.

“I want you to be in charge of the security of my office. Not as a security guard, I hasten to add. But I want you to oversee my protection, and the protection of this office. I want you to oversee any security weaknesses. And if we ever need to repeat what happened the other day, you will be in charge of that too. In short, I am training you to be an operative for MI6. Only you will not work for MI6, you will be working for me. There are a few training courses I would like to send you on. That is, of course, if this is a job you would like to do?”

Jim stared at him. “Yeah,” he said, a smile spreading over his face. “Fuck.” He blinked and caught himself. “Sorry, didn’t meant to swear. Yeah. I mean. Look, I joined the army to do work like that and… Yeah. You’re serious?”

Mycroft nodded. “There’s far more to your skill set than simply driving cars. Of course, I will be sorry to lose you.”

“I can still drive if you need me to?”

Mycroft smiled. “That won’t be necessary,” he said. He picked up a piece of paper and wrote a number down. He slid it across the desk to Jim. “Your salary,” he said.

Jim stared at it, his eyes widening. “Holy. Mother. Of. What?”

“Is that not acceptable?”

“It’s… this is.” Jim frowned and looked at him. “I can’t,” he said.

Mycroft frowned. “You can’t what?”

“Accept it. Not this much money. This is… you know this is about three times my old army salary?”

Mycroft nodded. “Yes, I know.”

“Mr Holmes. I joined the army because I wanted to serve my country. I know that sounds really sodding corny, and it is. But that’s what I wanted to do. My grandad was a military man. He had medals, and he wore them every Remembrance Sunday when he’d go up to the Cenotaph and pay his respects. Serving was his life, he said. My dad was a… my dad was a loser, pretty much. Waste of space. So I decided I’d follow my grandad’s life and join the army at 18. I loved it. I had responsibilities. I had a structure. I got up to the Major rank, as you know, before I lost my leg.”

Jim paused, leaning back in his chair, as though weighing over what he'd say next. “So, as you know, I lost my leg. Then came back to the UK, did drugs, went into rehab… I was thinkin’ of becoming a builder. Or a carpenter. Or… anything, I dunno. I’m not into the smart stuff, I’m a practical bloke. Then you said I could come and drive your car. I said yeah, because who else was going to give a former criminal and addict a job, huh? But there I was, driving you from your fancy flat in Pall Mall, to the SIS Building and MI5 Headquarters, and I thought… actually, I thought I was doing something useful. Serving this country.”

“I needed a driver because I needed to work while travelling and I refuse to take the tube,” Mycroft muttered.

“Doesn’t matter why you needed me, but you did. So then you became a Civil Servant and I was driving round politicians in your car for you. Serving the nation somehow. You gave me a job, you gave me a purpose and you were lettin’ me serve my country. You know, you’ve got your picture of the Queen up there behind you. When I see it, it makes me think that’s what this office is for. Queen and country. And you need me to be part of that. Makes me feel… a bit proud. Killing that bloke… knowing what he did? I feel a bit proud. I did my duty.”

He picked up the piece of paper with the salary. “That’s why I can’t accept this, Mr Holmes,” he said. “I didn’t do this for the money. I did it for you first of all, because you gave me chances no one else would. Then I was doing it for MI5 and MI6. Then for the Government. Then the sodding Queen, and then for every single damned person in this country that Rickard Luck bloke was threatening. I don’t want this salary. I don’t need it for a start, but I also don’t want it. I want my old military salary and that’ll suit me. I’m here to serve. Not to make a lot of money.”

Mycroft stared at him. “You are… ridiculous,” he said.

Jim grinned. “Yeah,” he agreed. “Actually, on second thoughts, I’ll take a bit more than my old Major salary, but not a lot more.”

Mycroft laughed. “Very well,” he said.

Jim grinned and stood up, holding his hand out. Mycroft shook it. “Give me two weeks to find someone to replace you in the car,” Mycroft said.

Jim laughed. “Sure thing, boss,” he said before walking out, whistling under his breath. Mycroft shook his head in disbelief. A killer on one hand, an honourable soldier on the other. Mycroft had a feeling that somewhere within himself, he wore the same contradictions. 


	36. Something Blue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to everyone who has commented and for being so patient with me. I've had a bit of a block, but I'm trudging through treacle to get through it.

**May 2007.**

**Location: The Coeur de Lion Offices, Pall Mall, London.**

Mycroft raised his eyebrows a mere fraction as he read the report sitting in his inbox. Charles Augustus Magnussen was planning a $4billion takeover of another media company which ran a number of top newspapers in the United States. The company had been in existence since the 1800s but Magnussen had buying power now.

Mycroft wasn’t a particular fan of his brand newspapers. The Times had a different owner, and although he read the others, he had a preference for it. Although he knew he would have to leak a story to another newspaper in the future, because he couldn’t allow Oliver Cale to get all the scoops, no matter how secret they kept their association. It was still a little too risky.

And the Prime Minister was stepping down. In reality, it was hardly news at all, coming as it was when everyone already suspected it would happen. But it gave Mycroft some scope to form a new and improved relationship with his successor. Mycroft already had a feeling who that would be, but he would wait until the end of June before studying it in any detail.

He would have to be more delicate in his dealings with the new one, he suspected. The current Deputy Prime Minister was a much more measured man, less prone to exaggeration and flipping at the touch of a button. That made him more predictable. Easier to handle. Less easy to manipulate and steer, perhaps, but he listened to everything before making decisions. Mycroft knew he would just need to develop his arguments. That wasn’t a problem.

And with one threat out of the way in the form of Rickard Luck, Mycroft was able to focus on other things. The Olympics and Paralympics security measures. Finding someone permanent to replace Danny Finck rather than borrowing people from MI5. Aligning himself with key Government figures, both in the Labour Party and in the Opposition. He knew he could start his work early on that score, so regardless of who won at the General Election, everyone would already be on Mycroft’s side.

It was tedious really, a lot of it. But every now and then, Mycroft would come across someone he could support. The Defence Secretary was one of those people. Andrew Regis, however, was on the very opposite end of the spectrum.

But that was Westminster. For all of the moan’s about the political elite all coming from the same schools, universities and wealth, there were a few who were unique and talked a lot of sense. Such as the Defence Secretary.

“He is an Eaton man, the Defence Secretary, I believe,” Mycroft said to Anthea one day while they watched builders hammer a whiteboard on the wall of Danny Finck’s former office. “But he doesn’t talk like one.”

Anthea was sat down cross-legged on the floor still in her gym clothes, her laptop balanced on her knees. She’d intended to leave the office more than an hour ago, but she’d wound up telling the builders what to do and they were all still there at gone 10pm. “Eaton,” she said, having checked his Wikipedia page. “As you say.”

“But he doesn’t talk like an Etonian.”

“You must have gone to a public school.”

“Marlborough College in Wiltshire,” Mycroft said. “It was about an hour away from home. I stayed there during the week and went home at weekends.”

“Any notable alumni?”

He nodded. “A few, I suppose. A few politicians. My favourite actually was a man named Anthony Blunt. He was an art historian later in his life and then exposed as a Soviet spy. He was stripped of his titles. But I found the story fascinating. I believe he died the year before I was born, so of course there’s no real link or ties there.”

“You and your fancy schools.”

“You were to a normal state school.”

“Yes, I did,” she said. She stood up as the builder walked over to her.

“These are the keys, miss,” he said, passing them over. “Is there anything else you need?”

Anthea glanced around the room. “No, thank you. That will be everything.”

The builders began to pack their bags and Anthea showed them out. Mycroft wandered into his office and collected the first of seven boxes to be taken into the room. He put it down on the desk in his and Anthea’s new joint second office.

“Well then,” Anthea said, handing him a key. “Here’s our room of secrets.”

Mycroft smiled at her, bemused. “Only the two of us have a key?” he asked.

“And the code to the second door we’ve just had built in,” she replied. “So.” She walked to the whiteboard, pen poised in her hand. “Where to begin?”

“Suspects,” Mycroft said. “We know the name Sebastian Moran already. Believed to be a good sniper. People have described it as a secret web. It obviously has dealings on the internet.” He watched as Anthea began to write words on the board. “We have no pictures of Moran that I’m aware of,” Mycroft said, frowning. “He doesn’t even appear to exist. And yet he got a job under that name. Hadrian was paranoid, there’s no way he didn’t check his background before hiring him.”

“So do you think his information was deleted?” Anthea asked.

“I suppose it’s possible if the network’s computer abilities are that good.” Mycroft sat down at the desk. “MOR. That’s got to mean something, I suppose.”

Anthea nodded. “We need to hire a new IT man,” she said.

“Yes, I know. There was a man at MI5 who was helpful, but Nadia Swift won’t be impressed if we steal him away from her. She was angry enough when she realised just how talented Mads is.”

Anthea shrugged. “You could make him an offer anyway,” she said. “You offer more money than MI5 do.”

“Limited career progression though,” Mycroft reminded her. “Most people in this building are all but chained to their desks now. Too many secrets to leave.”

“It’s cushy though,” she said. “Fancy office, not as many late nights, career protection because we’re not facing Government cuts or public scrutiny.”

“You are, however, facing my scrutiny.”

Anthea laughed, putting the cap back on the pen. “I need to go to the gym,” she said. “Can I leave you with this?”

Mycroft nodded. “I’ll leave in a little while,” he said, opening the first box.

“Please don’t re-order anything,” Anthea urged, watching him. “Not until I’ve finished filing it properly.”

“I’ll do my best.”

Anthea rolled her eyes. “Goodnight, Mr Holmes.”

“Goodnight Anthea.”

Mycroft pulled out the first file on the top of the box. It was PC Edmund Bullock’s trial details. It was currently pending but due to be held in July. He’d been the man employed by the MORnetwork to shunt Greg into the Thames. Mycroft frowned. There was a lead there, he supposed. And for that he needed Greg’s files.

He contemplated sending Anthea as he lay in bed that night, considering the problem. The last time he’d seen Greg it had not been under good circumstances. Considering the honour Mycroft judged him to have, he’d not reported Mycroft for all but murdering a man in front of him.

He sighed as he rolled over onto his side. He knew he’d have to go himself. Greg wouldn’t stand for Anthea going in his place and he knew it. And in truth, Mycroft wanted to get a proper look at him, to see if he was okay.

He hoped he was. He couldn’t be much worse than Mycroft after all.

* * *

 

**June 2007.**

**Location: New Scotland Yard, London.**

Mycroft showed himself through to the Serious Crime Division. Most of the officers barely glanced up at him, but they had no reason to think he wasn’t supposed to be there. Sergeant Sally Donovan was not at her desk.

He walked up to the door of Greg’s office, his heart pounding in his chest. He swallowed and finally knocked firmly.

“Come in!” Greg called. Mycroft opened the door. Greg was sat down, pictures of a crime scene littering his desk. “Alright?” Greg asked, a little uncertainty in his eyes.

“Fine,” Mycroft said stiffly. “I require the files pertaining to Edmund Bullock. We have a lot of research on the MORnetwork to do.”

Greg sighed. “Yeah. Sure. One sec, let me pull them all.” He stood up and walked to the filing cabinet. Mycroft glanced down at the back of his jacket. A strand of long reddish hair was attached to his collar at the back. A woman’s hair. Mycroft mentally went through every officer in Greg’s team. None had that colour hair.

He would have worn protective clothing at a crime scene. So what other woman would get so close to him?

A girlfriend. Ah. Oh.

“Take a seat if you want,” Greg said. “I’ll have to print some stuff off.”

“No. Thank you.”

“Suit yourself,” Greg muttered. Greg sat back down at his computer, papers in hand. “What sort of stuff do you want? Case stuff and his employee records?”

Mycroft nodded. “Yes.”

He stood in silence, staring at the man while he worked. He tried to block out his scent. He hadn’t changed his aftershave. It was distracting. Too familiar.

“So, did you hear about Sherlock putting his hand through a wall the other day?” Greg asked.

Mycroft frowned, not quite hearing him. “I’m sorry?”

Greg grinned, and it was painful just how warm that smile made Mycroft feel. “Clearly not. We were at this run-down shack of a place. Sherlock was gesturing, you know, like he does. Next thing we knew, his hand was right in through the wall.” Greg laughed. “It was so funny. He was furious. Mostly furious because I was videoing it. Hang on.” Greg took his phone out and handed it over to Mycroft.

Mycroft watched the video. Sherlock indeed had his hand through the wall, and he’d clearly got it stuck in there. Greg laughed. Mycroft almost felt a sneer rising on his lip and he forced it down. Jealous. Mycroft was jealous. Of his brother.

“C’mon, it’s funny,” Greg said.

Mycroft handed back the phone. “It’s good to see Sherlock’s getting on.”

“Yeah, he is,” Greg said. “Been great the last two months. He’s working hard, he’s back at Bart’s. Off the drugs. All the drugs. I’m proud of him.”

Mycroft nodded. The pages had finished printing, and Greg turned to grab them. He held them out and Mycroft took hold of them. Greg didn’t let go. “Are you alright?” Greg asked.

No.

“I’m fine.”

Greg bit his lip. “Fine. Good.” Mycroft nodded once and turned to the door, eager to leave as fast as he arrived. “Wouldn’t kill you to say please, Mycroft,” Greg called out to his back. “Or say thank you.”

Mycroft touched the cold door handle. He paused. “Thank you, Detective Inspector,” he said softly. He closed the door behind him, and walked out without once looking back. He sat down in the car.

Let him move on, he said to himself. Let him be now.

It’s over.

* * *

Mycroft didn’t often work Saturdays. But he had been called into the office by the Prime Minster himself. It was the few final days before the Home Office would be split, with a new Ministry Of Justice taking responsibility for prisons and sentencing while the Home Office would continue to deal with counter-terrorism and drugs. Mycroft was trying to figure out how it would work in reality, with people still unsure what their jobs would be with only days to go until the change.

He looked up as the door opened. Anthea was stood there, a pile of papers in her hands. “Hello,” she said, shutting the door with her foot.

Mycroft frowned. “Good morning,” he said. He followed her with his eyes as she made her way to his desk. “Why are you here?”

“Loretta called to say some urgent paperwork had been brought into the Coeur de Lion. She said you were here so I brought them over. Why are you here?”

“To prepare for these Home Office plans.” He shook his head. “Well, since you’re here, you can have a look at this for me and see if this makes any sense.” She took a seat and Mycroft gave her the Prime Minister’s memo. He went back to his own work while she read it.

“It doesn’t make any sense,” she said after a few minutes.

“That’s what I thought. Oh, for goodness sake,” he muttered. He took the files from her, opening the envelope. “Is this from the PM?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“Why on earth did he have it sent to the Coeur de Lion?”

Anthea shook her head. “No idea. The Lord Chief Justice still isn’t sure about these plans and he’s meeting the Prime Minister on Monday. The Prime Minister wants you to have this ironed out by then.”

“It’s not my job to make his life easier.”

“He’s angry at you.”

Mycroft rolled his eyes. “Yes. I realise that.” He shook his head. “You don’t have to be here for all of this. It’s nonsensical.”

“I know, but it’s all administration, and… that’s not your forte.”

Mycroft smiled gratefully at her. “Quite right. I’ll deal with the legislation side if you can have a look at these…” He handed some papers over. “These all deal with job descriptions and titles and hopefully they should divide between the two departments. We should be able to get this done by 5pm.”

She smiled at him. “I’ll make us some drinks first,” she said, standing up.

He nodded and glanced at his computer. He suddenly realised the date. “Anthea.”

“Yes?” she asked as she collected the tray.

He narrowed his eyes. “Aren’t you getting married today?”

“Correct.”

Mycroft glanced at his pocket watch. “Isn’t the ceremony in 10 minutes?”

“Yes.”

He pursed his lips. “Why aren’t you there?” he asked.

“I’m busy.”

“Won’t… Arnou mind?”

“He’ll understand,” she replied, walking for the door.

“You have told him.”

“No,” she said. “Is that everything, Mr Holmes?”

“For now. Anthea?”

“What?”

He stared at her for a moment, frowning. “Never mind. I won’t interfere.”

She nodded and left the room. Mycroft shook his head, but went back to his reading. It wasn’t his job to get involved in her personal life. If she wasn’t convinced she wanted to get married to Arnou after all, he wasn’t going to try to push the matter.

She brought him a coffee and herself a tea as they began to work. There was a knock on the door an hour later and Mycroft called for them to come in. Arnou stood in the doorway, dressed in a suit, clearly ready for the wedding that wasn’t happening.

“Anthea,” he said. “Mr Holmes.”

“Mycroft, please,” Mycroft muttered, focusing on his papers rather than the awkwardness that had just descended on the room.

“Mycroft. Hi. Anth, we’re meant to be getting married.”

“I had work to do,” she said.

“Are there any register offices near here, Mycroft?” Arnou asked.

Mycroft glanced up at him. “Yes, but it’s a Saturday in May, they will all be fully-booked.”

“We’ll just get married next week,” Anthea said.

Arnou nodded. “Okay, sure.” He smiled, and it was a genuine one, much to Mycroft’s surprise. “Can I help with anything?” he asked.

“No, but you could book somewhere for us to go to dinner tonight?” Anthea suggested.

Mycroft stared at them both, his eyes flicking between them. “You do want to get married, don’t you?” he asked.

“Yes, of course,” Anthea replied. “But we’re very busy. We’ll postpone it for next week, it’s fine. I’m sure we can find another venue at short notice.”

Mycroft paused for a moment. “Or. Perhaps I can pull some strings. Does the location bother you?”

“No,” Arnou said.

Mycroft bit his lip. “Anthea. Get the Registrar General on the phone.”

She nodded and flicked through her address book. It took three hours of negotiations and promises. The Registrar General was a hopeless romantic, it appeared. Part of the building Mycroft worked in was already approved for civil marriages and civil partnerships, but it was already in use. However, she extended the licence to include Mycroft’s office - just for one day. Arnou left while Anthea sat at Mycroft’s desk, fixing her make-up.

“Something’s bothering you,” Mycroft said from behind his computer, checking his emails.

“I’m getting married,” she said.

“Quite right. It didn’t look as though that would be the case several hours ago.”

“But now I am. Am I making a mistake?”

He looked up at her. “Anthea. I’m really not the best person to-”

“-Am I making a mistake?”

Mycroft paused. “I don’t know,” he murmured.

“He’s not a good man.”

“No, perhaps not in the traditional sense,” Mycroft agreed. “But he is loyal to you and he loves you.”

“What if he’s still trying to kill me?”

“Anthea, if I had any reason to believe that was the case, you know he would not be in this building. I would not allow him to marry you.”

“I know.”

“What’s wrong?” Mycroft asked.

“Nothing. It’s what I want to do, it’s just… nerves. Thank you for organising everything.”

He nodded. “You’re welcome.”

Loretta arrived half an hour later. She and Anthea hurried off to the toilets while Mycroft and Arnou sat in his office together. Mycroft put a bottle of champagne into a bucket of ice.

“This is surreal,” Arnou said. “We had a really nice venue picked out.”

“Don’t you have guests?” Mycroft asked.

“No.” Arnou chuckled. “Anthea was just going to grab some people off the streets to be our witnesses.”

Mycroft shook his head. “She never ceases to amaze me,” he muttered. “I assume you’ll need me to do the honours?”

“Would you?”

Mycroft nodded. “Certainly. Needless to say, Arnou, if you hurt her…”

Arnou smiled. “I know,” he replied. Arnou’s phone rang and he left to collect the registrar and conductor of ceremonies from the car park. Mycroft looked up as Loretta entered the room.

“She wants you,” she told him.

“Where is she?”

“The kitchen.”

Mycroft smiled in amusement and told Loretta to set everything in the room up as she liked. He walked through the building until he found Anthea dressed in one of her full-length black dresses she kept at the Coeur de Lion, her hair up, earrings sparkling. She turned to him. “Well?” she asked.

Mycroft nodded. “Splendid,” he said.

Anthea smiled at him. “I wish my father was here,” she said softly.

“I know.”

“We’ve known each other for three years,” Anthea said. “You and I.”

“Yes.”

She paused, assessing her reflecting in her compact mirror. “I suppose you don’t want to hear the ways in which you saved my life?”

“Not particularly,” Mycroft murmured.

“Would you give me away?” she asked.

Mycroft stared at her, taken aback. “I… I’m not exactly suited for this kind of occasion. I’m only staying for the ceremony because you need two witnesses.”

“I know,” she said. “But walk me in anyway?”

Mycroft nodded. He picked up his phone and called through to Loretta. “Is everything in place?” he asked her.

“We’re ready when Anthea is,” she replied.

Mycroft hung up and held his arm out to Anthea. She smiled and took it. They gazed at each other for a moment before Mycroft began to lead her out of the kitchen and down the long corridor.

“The Prime Minister’s plan is ridiculous,” she said. “No one wants it. He’s stepping down in a few months. What’s the point?”

“I have no idea,” Mycroft admitted. “I feel as though it’s a plan contrived to annoy me.”

Anthea laughed. “Try not to annoy the next one so much.”

“I can’t make any promises.” He sighed. “Politicians. Why did I ever willingly get involved with politicians?”

“I can’t answer that,” she said. They paused as they reached the door to Mycroft’s office. “Are you sure he’s not going to kill me?” Anthea asked, an amused smile on her lips.

Mycroft shook his head. “No. No, after today’s debacle, I’m quite convinced that he isn’t planning your demise.”

“It’s fine anyway,” she said. “He won’t get much money in my will. I spent a lot of my money on shoes for all those charity balls at Hugh Seagroves’ house.”

Mycroft laughed despite himself and opened the door to his office. Arnou was stood by the conductor of ceremonies, a loving smile on his face as he caught sight of his bride-to-be. Loretta was stood by his side, dressed in a pair of jeans and a t-shirt. Mycroft almost laughed at the ridiculousness of the situation as he walked with Anthea towards his desk.

He turned to her and bent down to kiss her cheek. She stared at him for a moment and reached out to squeeze his hand. “Thank you,” she whispered.

Mycroft nodded his head and moved to stand to the side. The vows were quick, unsurprisingly so. Arnou had vowed to protect her, and she likewise, an addition Mycroft approved of. He couldn’t help but smile as they sealed their marriage with a kiss, before they signed the certificate. Loretta signed it as the first witness, and then Mycroft followed.

The registrar and conductor of ceremonies left a few minutes later for their next appointments and the four of them stood in Mycroft’s office each with a glass of champagne.

“To the happy couple,” Loretta said with a grin.

“And then go home,” Mycroft said. “Both of you. Go and have a nice meal this evening and for goodness sake, don’t cancel your honeymoon on account of the Prime Minister’s incompetence.”

Anthea laughed. “I promise,” she said, holding her glass out. Mycroft clinked his against hers. After the glasses were finished, Loretta left and Mycroft urged Anthea and Arnou to go home. “Are you sure you don’t need anything else?” she asked.

Mycroft sat down at his desk. “It’s fine,” he replied. “I’ll call if anything urgent crops up. Have a lovely evening.”

“Thank you,” she said. “For everything.” She smiled at him and closed the door behind her.

Mycroft paused for a moment, taking a long breath. He was happy for them both. He was. Despite his reservations, he knew they were happy together. He’d seen it when they’d danced together at the Oxo Tower. He could see it in the way they looked at each other. He was delighted Anthea was happy. Despite all of that, he only felt an intense weight of sadness in his chest. 

The following day, Mycroft went to one of his favourite antique shops in London and bought her a gold necklace with blue stones. _Something old and something blue_ , he wrote on the note. _Belatedly_. He left it on her desk for her to find when she got to work on Monday. 


	37. The Flood

**June 2007.**

**Location: Heiligendamm, Germany.**

It was gone 4am. The small plastic clock on the bedside cabinet was ticking, and now Mycroft had noticed the endless noise, the sound was all he could focus on. He considered throwing the clock out of the window. Of putting his shoes on and stamping on it until the plastic covering cracked. But all of that required getting out of bed, and he knew the moment he stood up, he wouldn’t be able to get back to sleep.

Not that he’d found that easy-going in the past week.

It was his last night in Germany and tomorrow he would be going back to England. He’d been helping to set the agenda for the forthcoming G8 Summit, but his mind hadn’t been all there. He groaned and rubbed his face and grabbed the clock. He ran his fingers over the back of it until he found the catch, and he took it off and yanked the batteries out.

Silence descended. He licked his lips, finding the bottom one cracked. He’d been working for two weeks straight. But there were too many concerns for him to do anything but work. There had been car bombs. The UK’s security level was being increased from severe to critical. There were terrorists on trial. The number of people being investigated by the secret services had risen by 400 in the past eight months alone.

He groaned and rolled over, resting his cheek on the cool part of the pillow. He reached for his phone, squinting as the screen lit up. He tugged the charger out and rolled onto his back. Nothing to report.

He dropped the phone back down on the sheets and covered his face with his hands. Sleep. God, when had sleep stopped coming so easily? Deep down, of course, he knew the answer had the initials G and L attached to it. And though he did his best best to forget about him, it simply wasn’t happening.

And sleep didn’t come easily. And he felt as though he was missing everything important. That he should have a firmer grip on what the MORnetwork was. He felt as though he kept losing. And God, he was exhausted.

* * *

**July 2007.**

**Location: 10 Downing Street, London.**

The former Deputy Prime Minister had made very few changes to the Downing Street office, but it was certainly tidier, filled with new books and fewer expensive pens. They shook hands and Mycroft took a seat, accepting the mug of steaming tea put in front of him.

“It’s nice to meet you a little more formally,” the new Prime Minister said.

Mycroft nodded his agreement. “Thank you for meeting with me.”

“I’m aware you fund your own intelligence-gathering facility. But I’m afraid I haven’t been able to work out what else you do.”

“I have a small role in the Department for Transport.”

“I find it very strange,” the PM said. “All of the work you do. It feels as though there isn’t much of a separation between your political and security work and that concerns me.”

Mycroft sipped his tea. “How so?” he asked.

“It seems as though there’s a conflict of interest.”

“There isn’t.”

The PM raised his eyebrows. “Now I’m convinced,” he muttered.

Mycroft frowned. “I can only offer my assurances, I suppose. I’m not actually on a Government salary. I’m on an MI5 salary.”

“But you’ve done work as a Civil Servant?”

“You’ve seen me at meetings,” Mycroft said. “And a great number of them. Your predecessor found my views… useful. Even if he didn’t act on them very often, he made use of me. You don’t have to do the same, of course.”

“I’m not going to haul you in here every week like he did, if that’s what you mean. I have enough advisers.”

“I foresee you and I will have a very different working relationship,” Mycroft agreed. “I am your servant, and not the other way around. You may use me… as you wish.”

The Prime Minister stood up and held his hand out to shake again. “I’ll call on you if I require your security advice, of course. But my first point of contact is Hugh Seagroves, Nadia Swift and Ruth Barker at GCHQ.”

“And their first point of contact is me,” Mycroft said.

The Prime Minister narrowed his eyes. “Your role is higher than theirs?”

“On a par,” Mycroft replied. “But I have the security information obtained by all three of them, so I am in a better position to see the full picture.”

“And they know this?”

“Know it?” Mycroft asked. “Mr Prime Minister, they suggested it in the first place.” Not without a little manipulation beforehand, Mycroft supposed, but that wasn’t exactly relevant to this conversation. They shook hands. “Thank you for your time,” Mycroft said as he left the room.

It was no matter, he thought. He knew the Prime Minister would learn to make use of him in time. All it took was a little effort on his part and to give him a reason to trust him.

* * *

When the rain started, it didn’t seem to stop. London was bleak, the skies grey. And because it was summer and the days were longer, the gloom seemed endless. It struck Mycroft that it suited him much better to be away from the oppressive heat of the previous summer. And it proved to be one of the wettest months on record.

Mycroft was sat on his settee with his laptop and some reading when his mother called.

“It’s Monday,” he said distractedly. “I will call you tomorrow.”

“That would be fine, Mycroft,” she said, “but we might not be able to pick up.”

Mycroft frowned. “Why would that be?” he asked.

“The river has burst its banks. We’re expecting our downstairs will be flooded in less than 12 hours. We need to take as much of the furniture upstairs as possible. Will you and Sherlock come to help?”

Mycroft closed his eyes. “Fine,” he muttered. “I will get a car there now. I can make no promises on behalf of your other son, however.”

“Oh for goodness sake, the two of you…”

“It has nothing to do with me,” Mycroft replied. “I haven’t inflamed anything. He just isn’t talking to me. Nonetheless, I will have a driver pick him up to escort him separately to your house. I shouldn’t be more than a couple of hours.”

“Bring some wellies. And a coat.”

“Yes, mother,” Mycroft muttered. “I’m not four years old. In fact, even at four years old, I think I would have worked out that wellington boots and a coat were necessary.”

“Don’t be so rude. Now, hurry up please.”

“Of course,” Mycroft said before hanging up. He let out an exasperated sigh before getting up and wandering to his bedroom. He placed a call with Malcolm to escort Sherlock to their parents’ home in Gloucestershire before packing a bag for himself.

He drove himself to his parent’s house. He had seen the river’s rushing water as he drove past. It had already burst its banks and Mycroft knew his mother’s forecast of 12 hours was probably a bit optimistic if the rain continued in the same vein.

He knocked on the door and his father let him in. “Good timing,” he said, giving Mycroft a pat on the back. “We’re just wondering what we can do to avoid too much damage to the kitchen.”

“Not buying a house on the flood plain would have been a good start,” Mycroft said, hanging his coat up before following him through. His mother was taking pots and pans out of the cupboards and piling them into boxes.

“Hello, Myc,” she said, looking up at him. “You look exhausted.”

Mycroft frowned. “What do you want me to do?” he asked.

“Can you start taking some of the larger objects upstairs with your father? Anything you can get up there, please.”

Mycroft sighed and nodded, and began to help his father take shelving units and desks upstairs. They were storing everything in the fourth bedroom, stacking it against the walls. Mycroft glanced around at the bare walls. “You’re redecorating?” he asked. The last time he’d seen the room, it still had a bed and furnishings of its own.

“We started,” his father said. “We haven’t quite finished yet. I suppose it’s going to go on the back-burner again. We’ll have to re-carpet downstairs once it’s all dried out.”

Mycroft nodded and glanced at his phone. “Sherlock’s finally on his way,” he said. “Doubtless he’ll get here just as the water is creeping underneath the front door.”

“How is he?”

Mycroft shook his head. “He won’t talk to me on a good day. He sends me a message every now and then demanding something.”

“But he’s not taking drugs?”

“Not as far as I can tell. Not at the moment.”

“You look tired, Mycroft,” his father said, his voice gentle and concerned.

Mycroft shook his head. “I’m fine. I may look it, but I don’t feel it. I suppose we should carry some of those boxes up.” He turned and jogged down the stairs to begin carry the books and pans and cushions up to the forth bedroom.

Sherlock arrived two hours later. The water hadn’t reached the garden yet, and Mycroft was putting sandbags outside the front door as the car pulled up. He raised his eyebrows at Sherlock, who was shielding himself with an umbrella.

“You missed all the fun,” Mycroft commented dryly. “We haven’t got a lot of work left to do.”

Sherlock shrugged. “I was busy when your driver arrived.”

“Doing what, precisely?”

“Working on a case. Lestrade thought it was the boss, and he was half-right, I suppose, but without me they would not have had a conviction. I think he’s distracted, to be honest.” Sherlock smiled pointedly. “He was much easier to work with when he was single.”

Mycroft pressed his lips together, forcing himself not to rise to Sherlock’s comments. “Take some of these sacks, would you?” he asked. “They need to go by the back door.”

But Sherlock ignored him, stepping over the threshold and going into the house. Mycroft shook his head in disbelief and carried the sandbags around the house to put outside the back door.

Their mother had cooked a casserole, which they ate in the living room. She did much of the talking, discussing the abysmal weather and scolding Sherlock for his remarks and for not calling. The water began to rise at 11pm. Mycroft took himself to bed in his old room. It hadn’t changed a lot.

The wooden floor and the black beams on the ceiling were the same. The walls were still a red, but a darker tone than he had known. The wardrobe and the desk were the same, although it was not piled high with books as it had once been. The bed was different. It had been a single bed while he had lived there, but it was now a double, turning it to a more perfect guest room.

He listened to the rain tapping against the window, the way the pipes creaked and sheets rustled as he moved. No matter that he spent every weekend of four years of his life in this room, it wasn’t one he felt at home in. He felt like a stranger in it. Strange, really, that Mycroft had always been the outsider, while to everyone else, it looked as though that role should have been left for Sherlock.

Ah, but Sherlock was the baby. And Sherlock was less guarded. And though quicker to anger, he was far more entertaining. Unpleasant, perhaps, on occasion. But Sherlock’s quixotic nature was part of the charm for those who loved him. Mycroft supposed, to his family, he had no such charm.

But hardly surprising that he became so quiet when he thought about what he had to contend with.

He sighed and rolled over, and listened to the rain until eventually it eased him to sleep.

* * *

**August 2007.**

**Location: GCHQ Headquarters, The Doughnut, Cheltenham, United Kingdom.**

“I’m really busy,” Ruth Barker of GCHQ said as she set him up with her computer. “I’m off to the USA again next week. And Germany two days later.”

“It never ends,” Mycroft muttered, logging in. “How is everything with the NSA?”

“It’s going well, actually. You should come with me the NSA. Have a look at what we’ve got going so far.”

Mycroft hummed. “I’m busy,” he said. “I’m sure everything is in hand.”

“They still hate me.”

Mycroft glanced up at her. “They always will,” he said. “But there will be presidential elections soon, and new top staff at the NSA and then you can charm and disarm them.”

Ruth laughed. “You seen the news?” she asked.

“You need to be more specific.”

She smiled just a little. “The new legislation in the United States to expand the Government’s power to conduct electronic surveillance on foreign suspects without a court order.”

“Ah yes,” Mycroft said. “I did see that. Surveillance without a warrant. And I assume you approve of it?”

“Of course. Don’t you?”

Mycroft paused for a moment, tearing his eyes away from the computer screen. “Hypothetically, picture the President of a country with a terrible human rights record, say… I don’t know, Zimbabwe, grants himself permission to intercept any communications necessary to protect the country’s national security without a warrant. And not only the President, but others in positions of authority, including the Criminal Investigations Operatives.”

“Sounds a bit scary,” Ruth admitted, narrowing her eyes. “But it’s hypothetical.”

Mycroft shook his head. “No. It’s not. The day before the USA announced its proposals, Zimbabwe passed theirs.”

“You can’t compare the two.”

Mycroft pursed his lips. “Not exactly, no, but it’s food for thought, isn’t it?”

She tilted her head. “You approved of my intelligence-gathering plans.”

“I know. I did. I approved them. I didn’t approve _of_ them.”

She stared at him, a lips twisted in disbelief. “You’ve been in the security services for years. How can you still have doubts about privacy and intelligence-gathering?”

“How can you not?” Mycroft asked her. “For now, it’s surveillance on foreign suspects. Then it will be foreign suspects living in the United States. Then any suspects, foreign or otherwise, living in the United States. Then it will be hunting for suspects, regardless of their status and intent. The line has to be drawn somewhere, and while it isn’t drawn, it edges more and more onto the privacy of millions of people.”

“If they have nothing to hide then they have nothing to worry about.”

Mycroft rested his hands on the desk. “So Derek Adams, a man in his 40s is writing his first novel,” he began. “It’s a first person story about a man trying to infiltrate a terrorist training camp. He emails a few paragraphs to one of his closest friends, a man with a shady past, perhaps he has been involved in some activities worth keeping an eye on, so his emails are already being monitored. ‘I’m going to bomb Washington,’ the email says, without context about it being a novel, because his friend is already expecting the email. ‘In four days time, I am going to put a bomb in the gardens by the White House and I am going to see it explode’. Mr Adams is promptly arrested, interrogated… perhaps even tortured.”

“That’s unrealistic.”

“Is it?” Mycroft held her eyes for a moment before turning back to the laptop. “I don’t know. I’ve been involved in the intelligence services in one guise or another since I was 21. The technology has improved, on both the terrorists’ side and ours. And the question remains, how far do we go? And the answer… it always seems to be that we don’t go far enough. So we push. And push. More data. More information. More text messages, more emails, forcing the telephone companies to provide every single piece of data they have on every customer. Do we monitor all their financial transactions? Do we need to know where every single one of our citizens are at any given time? What was once science fiction is being explored all the time by people like you. You don’t argue against it and yet you wield all the power. No one tells you no. And if they do, you force it through anyway. You give the Prime Minister cold hard statistics which can only work in your favour. More surveillance. More monitoring. And he says yes, because he doesn’t understand what GCHQ is capable of. He doesn’t know the full extent of what you are doing with the NSA and, frankly, it’s inexcusable, Ruth.”

She stared at him, glaring. “What are you going to do, then?” she asked. “If you feel that strongly?”

Mycroft held his hands up. “Nothing at all.” He pulled a face. “I’m not going to do anything. Because I see your point of view too.”

“But it frightens you.”

“Yes,” he said softly. “Yes, it does. We’re not Zimbabwe. The USA is not Zimbabwe. But we sit on a fine line, and it gets thinner by the minute. And sometimes those sitting on the line… they don’t see what’s right in front of their eyes.”

“But you’re not coming to the NSA with me?”

“No, Ruth,” Mycroft said. “Because I’m too afraid of what I might find there.”

* * *

It happened in the middle of the night. A UK Twister fighter jet flying over Afghanistan had exploded mid-air. It was a mechanical failure. It was close to the ground when it happened. The pilot was killed instantly - as well as 13 people in a village near the British army’s base.

In the morning of the explosion, Mycroft had urged the Prime Minister to de-commission all RL6 Twister jets until they went in for further testing. That afternoon the British army base in Afghanistan was targeted in retaliation. Two members of the British military were brought back in coffins.

He travelled to Wootton Basset when the soldiers’ bodies were brought back to the United Kingdom. Jim Braum drove him there, his service medals pinned to his chest. They stood in the streets along with members of the Royal British Legion and hundreds of others as the coffins draped in the Union Flag were driven through the market town in Wiltshire.

And was taking down Rickard Luck worth the cost?

Mycroft didn’t know the answer to that. He and Jim were silent in the car, Mycroft sat in the passenger seat because it felt wrong, somehow, to sit in the back when Jim was no longer his driver.

“You couldn’t have known,” Anthea said to him when he got into the office at lunchtime.

Mycroft sunk down into his chair. “I knew,” he murmured. “I knew the jets weren’t ready to be commissioned. I knew.”

It was the wrong day for Sherlock to come by Crusader House. He wasn’t high, thank small mercies for that, but by the way he forced himself in, Mycroft knew he wasn’t in a mood to be anything other than temperamental.

“Our mother keeps calling me,” Sherlock said, glaring at Mycroft from across the room. “What did you say to her?”

Mycroft raised his eyebrows, pausing over his coffee. “What did I say to her?” he repeated. “I say a lot of things, but I don’t recall saying anything specific about you in the past month.”

“She’s interfering.”

“Perhaps because she considers you worth interfering with? Goodness knows why though,” Mycroft muttered.

“Lestrade has a girlfriend,” Sherlock said.

Mycroft narrowed his eyes at the change of subject. “I’m aware.”

“He doesn’t even mention you,” his brother added casually. “I suppose you weren’t as important as you thought you were.”

Mycroft sighed and rolled his eyes. “Sherlock, if you are trying to rattle me in some way, or cajole me into doing something for you…”

“You still have men following me. I want you to get them off my back.”

Mycroft shook his head. “I can’t do that until I’m certain you’re safe,” he replied. “Another few months, and I’ll know for sure.”

“If I’m at risk then you know it’s your fault.”

Mycroft narrowed his eyes. “Yes, of course,” he said. “Just as your drug problem is my fault.”

“I don’t have a problem.”

“You’re an addict, Sherlock,” Mycroft reminded him.

“But I have something you want, don’t I? I get to see your precious Detective Inspector every week.”

“Sherlock-”

“-No, shut up. Do you even know what day it is today?”

Mycroft paused for a moment. “It’s a Tuesday, isn’t it?”

“The date.”

“The 17th of August.” He sighed. It was five years from _that event._ “Ah.”

Sherlock shook his head in disbelief. “You don’t even care, do you? I always thought you were pretending. I thought it made you feel better if you pretended to just forget, but you really don’t care at all.”

“And do you really care, Sherlock?” Mycroft asked him, tilting his head. “Or do you simply despise me because I don’t? Because you know you shouldn’t care either. You only wish that you could get rid of that small part of you that gives a damn, and you can’t. Oh, if you could only shut down those emotions, wouldn’t it be wonderful?”

“You’re wrong about me.”

Mycroft shook his head. “But I’m not. You feel the deep ache inside your gut that nobody likes you. That everyone you encountered at your university despised you. And you can’t for a moment understand why I feel nothing.”

Sherlock stared at him for a moment and shook his head. “As always, you get it spectacularly wrong.”

“Sherlock. I don’t think I have.”

There was a long pause before Sherlock turned and stalked towards the front door. He stopped for a moment before turning to face Mycroft. “I saw her last week,” he said. “Lestrade’s new girlfriend. She gave him a lift to work. She’s what people would consider typically attractive. And they would certainly consider her an upgrade on you.” And with that, he left, slamming the door behind him.

Mycroft swallowed, his shoulders tense. How had he not realised it was August 17? With a sigh, he text Greg.

 

MESSAGES  
5.21pm: I fear tonight is a  
danger night for Sherlock. I’m  
concerned. Are you able to check  
on him? M

 

The response came back a moment later, and Mycroft hated how much pleasure settled in his chest as Greg’s name appeared on the screen.

 

MESSAGES Greg Lestrade  
5.23pm: Course. I’ll go there as  
soon as I finish work.

 

Mycroft sighed, the knot in his chest tightening. He dropped his head into his hands and it was only when his phone chimed as he sat up straight that he realised he’d fallen asleep in his chair.

 

MESSAGES Greg Lestrade  
6.57pm: Worse than danger night.  
Using again. Sorry to have to be  
bringer of bad news.

 

MESSAGES Mycroft Holmes  
6.58pm: Oh good Lord. Phone if you  
need anything.

 

He poured himself a glass of wine and settled on the settee with cheese on toast and some salad. Nothing was working as it was supposed to. He wasn’t in control anymore. He needed one night where he slept more than a few hours. He needed… to rest.

He text his private physician and asked him to visit Crusader House in the morning. And then he told Anthea he wouldn’t be in to work the next day. He went to bed and he lay there for hours, and all he saw were two coffins being driven through the town of Wootton Basset. He saw Sherlock, on drugs. Nations at war. And he wished he didn’t know any of it. He wished he could just have been a veterinarian.

* * *

When he emerged from his bedroom in the morning, he found Mrs Lunden, his cleaner, was already dusting his furniture in his living room. “Oh, Mr Holmes,” she said. “I’m so sorry, I had no idea you were here.”

“No, it’s fine,” he replied, picking up his newspapers. “I hadn’t intended to be.” He yawned. “Mrs Lunden, I’m going to work from home today. Don’t worry about finishing the cleaning. Go home.”

“Mr Holmes-”

“Please,” he said. “I’ll pay you as usual.”

She nodded. “Of course,” she said, beginning to collect her supplies. Mycroft forced a smile at her and went into his kitchen. He sighed as he leaned against the counter, waiting for the water in the kettle to boil. He poured himself a tea and did some work in his office until his physician arrived.

There were routine tests first, a general study of his health.

“So you’ve been having problems sleeping?” Dr Stock asked.

“Yes.”

“How long for?”

“Months,” Mycroft said. “Since around January.”

“Any big changes in your life?”

“I.” Mycroft hesitated over telling him. “A change in romantic circumstances, but nothing else.”

“Been under any extra stress?”

“No more than usual.”

“I’m reluctant to prescribe you anything. You should try cutting down on caffeine first. Tea and coffee.”

Mycroft shook his head. “I’m not drinking more than I used to. I just need respite, just for a few weeks. I just need… I’m losing it, Dr Stark. I’m exhausted. I can’t concentrate. I just need to sleep.”

“We could try cognitive behavioural therapy to try to reduce your anxiety about not falling asleep.”

“I’m not anxious,” Mycroft snapped. “Please. Give me a month of pills. I just need to rest.”

Dr Stark studied him for a moment and sighed, pulling out his prescription pad. “I know you do an important job, Mr Holmes. But you can’t do that important job is you don’t keep on top of your health.”

“I know,” Mycroft said, taking the paper from him gratefully. “It’s just for…” He checked the piece of paper. “Just for the four weeks you’ve prescribed and then I should be back to normal.”

“Mr Holmes. You need to take care of yourself. Eat healthily, try to reduce your caffeine intake and reduce your stress. However, your cholesterol and everything else seems fine at the moment.”

“Thank you,” Mycroft murmured. “For coming and giving me this.”

“Look after yourself,” Dr Stark said as he collected his case and left.

Mycroft went to the pharmacy after that, collecting his prescription. He didn’t work for the rest of the day, opting to relax on the settee instead.

Greg called him around lunchtime. His name popped up and Mycroft swallowed, half-tempted not to accept the call.

“Hi. It’s me,” Greg answered.

“How is Sherlock?” Mycroft asked.

“He’s struggling. I don’t know what made him start again. I thought we were doing well, but he’s gone backwards. I’m going to put in a call at Bart’s and ask them to start giving him bigger stuff to do. But I haven’t got any cases either.”

“I will see if I can find him something to keep him occupied,” Mycroft said.

“Cheers. That would be good.”

Mycroft chewed his lip. “He won’t talk to me. You’ll have to give it to him.”

“I will,” Greg said. “Thanks, Mycroft.”

“No problem.” Mycroft hung up. He stared down at the phone in his hands. He felt the ache again, a deep longing to hear Greg’s voice.

He went to bed early that night. For the first time in months, he was asleep just minutes after his head hit the pillow. 


	38. Leaks

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shoot, almost forgot! Mycroftiest made these wonderful posters for Human Remains and Con Falls. Thanks so much, lovely!  
> http://saziikins.tumblr.com/post/115833977063/mycroftiest-human-remains-by-saziikins

**September 2007.**

**Location: Baskerville Military Base, Dartmoor, United Kingdom.**

Mycroft had expected a little more security. Yes, there were the security checks, but he had anticipated something more. Fingerprints or eyescans or… something. Instead, his identification card was checked and then he was on his way in. He parked the Land Rover he had rented, before stepping outside.

“Corporal,” he called out to one of the officers as he locked the car. “Can you find me Major Barrymore?”

“Yes, sir,” the corporal said, turning on his heel.

Mycroft glanced around the perimeter. There was a small hole in one of the fences. He wandered over to it. He imagined it was used by a rabbit, sneaking in under the wire to see if the grass was any greener. Mycroft suspected the rabbit was enjoying the batch of dandelions sprouting up in the car park area. As far as security breaches went, a single rabbit with floppy ears wasn’t a significant concern.

But if one hole went unnoticed or ignored, then how many others would there be?

“Mr Holmes.”

Mycroft turned round to face the Major, his dark hair trimmed and beginning to recede. Mycroft shook his hand. “Major Barrymore,” he said. “I believe you’ll be showing me around Baskerville this morning?”

The Major nodded a little shortly, leading Mycroft towards the main door. “We don’t do visitors,” he said.

Mycroft raised his eyebrow. “I’m well aware. But several laboratories across this country have been responsible for leaking foot-and-mouth disease from their drains. Considering the bacteria and viruses Baskerville could unleash on the country… Well. You don’t need to know about that.”

The Major swiped his pass and let him in. “It’s all labs,” he said. “And there’s some offices.”

“I have permission to go anywhere I want,” Mycroft said. “I think I will begin this tour by myself.”

“Sir-”

“Thank you, Major.” He walked down the long corridor, stopping only as he reached the lift. There had to be stairs, he thought as he wandered through another door. All buildings with lifts also had stairs in case of a fire…

He found them eventually, and walked to the top floor. His card was enough to grant him access to every room. The first set of doors led to a laboratory, its worksurfaces gleaming.

The scientists looked up from their work stations, but they didn’t say a word as he began to walk in. He knew they would disclose as little about their work as possible. Regardless of his authority, he wasn’t part of their world. He moved from desk to desk, introducing himself and shaking hands with those who didn’t have their hands on an animal or were at risk of spilling something on his clothes.

The bins were close to overspilling, and Mycroft put that down as a fire hazard instead of anything more concerning. But it hinted at a lackadaisical attitude. Not everything was contained and pristine.

He pointed it out to one of the scientists, and the man laughed and dismissed it. “It gets cleared up,” he said. “Maybe once a week?”

Not enough, Mycroft thought. He had once been told every experiment you could think of took place at Baskerville. He liked to think that wasn’t true, because he could consider some experiments he would rather didn’t take place anywhere in the world, Baskerville included.

But he found no major breaches. One drain appeared to be leaking, and he pointed it out. The water was tested for contaminants, and none were found, but Mycroft asked for it to be checked again in a month’s time.

And satisfied, he drove back to London.

* * *

**April 2004.**

**Location: Halliford Street, Islington, London.**

_Anthea lived on the top floor of a four-storey building. Her black and white furnishings were were clean and modern, but soft throws and cushions gave it a lived-in feel. She was wearing a pair of gym trousers with a t-shirt when she let Mycroft into her home. He’d not specified that it was a formal meeting, which half explained the informal dress. It was also explained by the fact her arm was still in a cast, and she still had fading bruises on her face following the terrorist attack in Pakistan._

_“Do you want a drink?” she asked._

_“Is it too much trouble?”_

_“Why, because of this?” she said, glancing down to her arm. “I’m getting used to it. How do you take it?”_

_“Coffee. White. One sugar. But it depends on the time of day.”_

_She walked into the gully kitchen without another word and turned the kettle on. Mycroft took the opportunity to look at the pictures she had on the wall. A few were prints of famous Picasso and Dali paintings. But there was also a picture of Anthea, looking no older than around 19, standing alongside an older man. Mycroft glanced between the pair of them. They had the same look in their eyes, the same pointing chin._

_“Is this your father?” he asked, when she brought him a coffee._

_She took a seat at the round table by the window. “It is,” she said._

_“Where were you?” he asked._

_“A cousin’s wedding. Do you have any siblings?”_

_Mycroft turned to her and frowned. “I’m sorry?”_

_“I just thought if we you asking about my family, we should make it a sharing experience,” she responded tightly, narrowing her eyes at him._

_He nodded just once, pulling a chair out and sitting opposite her. “A brother,” he said._

_“I don’t,” she replied. “My mother died when I was four. Car accident. He died a year after that photograph was taken.”_

_“I am sorry. What did he do?”_

_“He was an inventor.”_

_Mycroft raised his eyebrows. “An inventor? What did he invent?”_

_“I don’t know. It’s classified.”_

_“Classified?” Mycroft watched her for a moment. “He was in the secret service?”_

_She nodded. “I think so. When I was a child, he made me all sorts of puzzles and games. He made me figure out codes. I would spend hours… days, sometimes figuring out his games. I never figured out the final one.”_

_“The final game?” Mycroft asked._

_“He never smoked, never drank, never went to Chernobyl. He was healthy. But he got cancer so suddenly. I was 20 and he was 44. He died very fast.”_

_Mycroft frowned. “Do you know what happened?”_

_“No. I don’t. I have conspiracy theories.”_

_He raised his eyebrows. “I don’t find conspiracies are particularly helpful in our line of work. Far too often they prove to be true.”_

_“Sylvia Ross used to tell me I was chasing ghosts. But I found it helpful.”_

_“How are you feeling?” he asked._

_“As in, am I in pain or am I having nightmares about all the people I got killed?”_

_“Both. Actually.”_

_“I’m living with it,” she said. “Successfully, in fact. I can cook my own dinners and make us both a cup of tea or coffee.”_

_“I understand you have some… questions about this job.”_

_She huffed and sipped her drink. “You walk into my hospital room and interrogate me and expect me to give up everything in order to work with you. You tell me that I can live with those terrible things. And off you go, for a week, while I sit here and wonder if I hallucinated the whole thing.”_

_“You’re wrong,” Mycroft murmured. “About me expecting you to give up everything you have. Because you don’t have anything to give up.”_

_She narrowed her eyes at him. “I dislike you,” she muttered._

_“Tell me where I’m mistaken.”_

_She raised her eyebrows. “You and I are getting off very much on the wrong foot here.”_

_“Perhaps I was mistaken about you,” Mycroft said. “I’m sure there are plenty of other people Mrs Ross could recommend for me to work with.”_

_“I’m sure there are.”_

_“Did you even open the email I sent you?” he asked, frowning._

_She pressed her lips together before taking a sip of her sweet-smelling tea. “No,” she finally said. “Why?”_

_“Because I included your salary in it.”_

_She frowned at him for a moment before dragging her laptop closer to her. She eyed Mycroft from over the top of it as she typed with just one finger. Her eyes flicked down to the screen. She glanced back at Mycroft. “That’s quite an impressive wage for a secretary.”_

_He shook his head. “You’re not going to be a secretary. You’re my eyes and ears. You’re my assistant, certainly, because I understand you know how to keep things organised.”_

_She nodded. “A messy system equals a messy brain. How can anyone function in disorder?”_

_“Surprisingly well,” Mycroft said. “I’m quite tidy myself, but I do have a dreadful habit for putting paperwork in the wrong order.”_

_She smiled a little. “Will I have an office?”_

_“I haven’t even found a building yet. But yes, I suppose you shall have your own office.”_

_“What happens if I refuse the job?”_

_Mycroft paused for a moment. “You will be watched by MI5 for the rest of your life. If you tried to enter any kind of public service, your name would be flagged up. You would find some success in retail or perhaps the food and drink trade, but you will never work for the intelligence services again. Nor the police, the ambulance service or the fire service, or the army.”_

_“I’m a marked woman.”_

_“Stop trying to complicate everything. I’m giving you a wonderful opportunity.”_

_She shook her head. “It seems wonderful to you. It feels like entrapment to me.”_

_“You can say no.”_

_She let out a hollow laugh. “Can I?”_

_“Well, I hardly think you’re irreplaceable.”_

_She narrowed her eyes. “You don’t seem like the sort of man who settles for second best.”_

_“I don’t.”_

_“Then why settle for me without trying anyone else out first?” she asked._

_“Because, quite frankly, this is the most engaging conversation I’ve had in the past three months. And because you intrigue me.”_

_“I don’t have relationships with co-workers.”_

_Mycroft smiled coolly. “Well, that’s fine, because neither do I. Do men often make advances on you?”_

_“Too often. Hugh Seagroves appeared to make it his life’s work to get me into his bed.”_

_“Well, you will be pleased to know you will have no such problem with me.”_

_“Why is that?”_

_“I’m gay.”_

_She sat back in her chair. “I see.”_

_“Did you decide on a name for yourself yet?” he asked._

_“Yes. Anthea Boyette.”_

_“Is there any particular reason why those names appealed to you?”_

_“No. I find it easier not to get attached if you make the name up out of no where. And I don’t intend to get attached to my name. It may not last long. The others didn’t.”_

_Mycroft nodded and stood up. “Come to my temporary office tomorrow afternoon. The address is on your email.”_

_She nodded at him and he left. He went to Thames House, and logged in to his old computer. His passwords and codes gave him far more access than he thought he should have been granted, but he didn’t question it as he searched through its archives._

_Her new name was already in the system, but it listed her former aliases too. But it was her original birth name that mattered to him. Alexandra Dowler._

_And that led Mycroft to her father. George Dowler. He found his files easily enough. He printed out the details of his inventions, the schematics, the plans. He bound them up in a neat folder. And then he read the details of his death. Some sort of radiation poisoning was suspected. But the Cold War had just ended. And though some USSR involvement had been suspected, the British authorities kept a lid on it to ensure tensions did not surface again._

_Mycroft didn’t print that out._

_Instead, when he met Anthea at Crusader House, he handed her the document containing her father’s work and he saw her resolve falter for just a moment. Her eyes met his. She smiled a little, running her thumb against one of the drawings. “He did this,” she said softly._

_“Yes.”_

_“Why did you do this for me?” she asked, staring at him._

_“I want you to work for me. Will you?”_

_“I thought you were a bit of a heartless bastard,” she murmured._

_“And I think you’re a little too plain spoken for your own good.”_

_“I can wind it in,” she said. “Do you want me to call you sir?”_

_“Yes,” Mycroft agreed. “I think it’s best we start over again.”_

_“Yes, sir,” she replied. “I’ll try to be a little less plain spoken.”_

_“And I’ll try to be a little less of a heartless bastard.”_

_They gazed at each other for a moment as though testing the other out. Anthea glanced down at the files again, closed the folder and smiled. “So, Mr Holmes,” she said. “Where do we start?”_

* * *

**October 2007.**

**Location: Crusader House, Pall Mall, London.**

He ate alone. He ordered Thai food from his favourite takeaway restaurant in London. He had a glass of wine, and the film Chinatown on the television. The adverts annoyed him, but it gave him time to get up and use the bathroom or change into some more comfortable clothes.

This was his birthday. The quiet melancholy, hardly tempered by the good food, expensive wine and impressive storytelling.

Only 12 months before, and his birthday had seemed to be something worth celebrating. Now… now he was alone again. How many more birthdays were due to be like this, he wondered. Too many.

It wasn’t just Greg he missed, as a smiling, warm companion, but it was having a friend at all. They had been friends, hadn’t they? First and foremost, above all other things, they’d been friends. They’d talked and shared stories and laughed. Mycroft was at peace in his presence, soothed with only a smile from him.

He longed for it. Not just his touch, but more than that. The constancy of friendship. But it remained something he could not return to, however much he wished for it.

But he wanted to make amends. To explain what happened. It was all he could think of that night, and the next morning, he sent him an email inviting him to the Coeur de Lion Offices to talk.

Greg agreed.

Mycroft almost wished he hadn’t.

It had been four months since he’d seen him. That knowledge alone, combined with the thought he had a new girlfriend, left Mycroft on the edge of his seat all day. He did his best to work but he was distracted. He wanted to see him, but he wanted Greg to cancel. He wanted to be in his company and he wanted even more to erase him from his memories.

But Mycroft wasn’t Sherlock. He wouldn’t try to erase or delete something that mattered, no matter how deep the pain.

Anthea alerted Mycroft that Greg was outside the building. He sent her down to meet him, and cleared a few papers off his desk. He stayed sitting there, butterflies in his stomach, until the door opened and he flicked his eyes up to gaze at him.

He’d come straight from work, a stray animal hair attached to his collar (dog, not cat). He looked well as he walked over to the chair and sat down. “Hi, alright?” Greg asked.

“Fine,” Mycroft said. “Yourself?”

“Yeah, good, cheers.” Greg turned his head to look around the office, leaning back in the chair and resting his ankle on his opposite knee. “So. An explanation.”

Too fast. Mycroft didn’t want him to hear it all and just leave. He wanted to make amends, to explain… “Would you like a drink?” he offered. “Coffee?”

Greg nodded. “Yeah, I’d love a coffee. Haven’t had one of your favourite tasty coffees in a long time.”

Mycroft typed a message to ask the man filling in for Loretta to bring the tray through. He took a soft breath, closing the lid down and flicking his eyes up to meet Greg’s as he composed himself. Images of what they’d done in this office, of Greg’s feet on his desk, spun in his head.

No more.

The door opened and the drinks were carried through. Mycroft thanked him. Greg made a pleased sound as he drank his coffee. Mycroft dropped his eyes to his desk. “I felt I owed you an explanation for what happened at the Diogenes Club,” he said once they were alone.

“Mycroft, that happens months ago.”

He nodded. “I know. I realise I should have explained before.”

“You should have,” Greg said. “But go on. I’m ready to listen.”

Mycroft swallowed. He’d tell it all, he thought. Then it would be up to Greg to decide whether they would see one another again. “The man you met - the man who pointed a gun at your head - is Rickard Luck. He ran a weapons manufacturing company out of the United Kingdom. Much of his business was conducted with the British army, and occasionally with the United States.”

“Rickard Luck.”

“Yes. He sold weapons illegally all over the world. Russia, North Korea, Iran. Anywhere he found the highest bidder. When I made the discovery, I, and a team including Hadrian Kirkcudbright worked to expose it. Our intention was not to have him killed, but to find him a jail cell.”

Greg smiled a bit. “Bastard would have deserved it for threatening to kill you.”

Mycroft paused. He half expected Greg would hate him, or at the very least, dislike him. “I-thank you,” he stammered, before trying to find his train of thought.

Mycroft told him all of it. About Sebastian Moran killing Kirkcudbright. Tatiana Garzone, her husband Dimitri, the National Archives and the MORnetwork.

Mycroft paused for a moment, weighing up what else to tell him. “You began re-investigating the Kirkcudbright case. I apologise, Greg. I pressed you to solve it. I did not understand the full implications of you doing so. I worked with Hadrian Kickcudbright on a number of projects, and he was competent and skilled. I wanted his murder resolved. I never imagined it would link to Operation Indigo. I never dreamed Luck knew the operation existed.”

Greg nodded. “It’s okay.”

“Luck got interested in you, Greg. He wanted to know who you were, this man working beside me. And he had you followed. The MORnetwork hired Edmund Bullock, angry and resentful at not being made Sergeant and keen to seal his own promotion with you dead. He planted the bug on you. It was then, Luck discovered our… arrangement. He ordered you to be killed, which Bullock carried out with a level of incompetence I imagine Luck foresaw. Bullock was never hired by the MORnetwork to be successful.”

“Yeah. He was a crap policeman at times,” Greg said.

Mycroft smiled a bit. “We’re lucky he was. I should have known you would be a target.”

“It’s okay,” Greg said. “I’m alive.”

We got lucky on that score, Mycroft thought. “You are. I did not heed the warnings to put an end to Operation Indigo. And then you discovered you were being bugged. Or rather, Sherlock did. And so Luck needed to up the ante.”

“My life was at risk, right? So you ended it with me.”

Greg was far more intelligent than even he realised. Mycroft ignored him. “The meeting with Luck at the Diogenes Club was not supposed to involve you, Greg. He caught me quite unawares when he asked me to call you and ask you there. Nonetheless, I knew you were in no danger. Luck thought the meeting was a last-minute arrangement. In fact, we had agents setting it up for months. He overplayed his hand with you, Greg. He thought I was sentimental about you. He rather lost sight of the bigger picture.”

“What was the bigger picture?”

“Removing me from the equation entirely. He was useful for revealing information about the MORnetwork, and we got a little out of him before we had to have him killed.”

“I’m right though,” Greg said. “You ended our relationship to protect me.”

Mycroft swallowed. “How is your girlfriend, Greg?” he asked.

Greg frowned. “She’s fine.”

That was confirmed then. “Good,” Mycroft said. “I’m glad. I’m sure it is far more appropriate than anything we could have had.”

“You don’t know that,” Greg said, his voice soft. “You didn’t give us a chance.”

“I do know.”

“I don’t agree.” Greg bit his lip, as though he was afraid to say anymore.

“I miss working with you, Greg,” Mycroft said, the closest he could possibly get to saying he missed more than that. “There are cases I am involved in where you could be a valuable asset to MI5.”

Greg blinked. “What?”

“It wouldn’t require any work outside your usual jurisdiction, but I will be able to pass on tips and advice. I do have some documents you would have to sign, and some paperwork to read, but you don’t need to make the decision now.”

“I’ll do it. Whatever you need me to do.”

Mycroft slid his drawer open and retrieved some of the MI5 paperwork. He slid them across the desk. “Our working together makes perfect sense. We both want the same outcomes for Sherlock. We trust each other, or at least, I trust you. And we know each other well.”

“I don’t know you,” Greg said. “I thought I did, but I don’t think I do. I don’t know what you think or feel when you say things to me.”

Mycroft looked down at his desk. “Perhaps it’s best not to discuss our previous relationship.”

Greg didn’t say another word. He spread the papers out in front of him and began to read them. Mycroft linked his fingers together in front of him, staring down at them. This was a terrible idea, he thought. And abysmal idea. He knew seeing Greg more often, while he wanted it, could prove to be his undoing. He thought there was every chance it would only bring more pain.

“You got a pen?” Greg asked.

Mycroft handed him one, and watched while Greg signed his name. “I will contact you when there is something you can become involved with,” Mycroft said.

Greg nodded. “Cheers. Right. Well, thanks. Thank you for filling me in.” Greg stood up, straightening his jacket. He opened his mouth as though he had something to say, but he licked his bottom lip instead, a frown between his eyes.

“What’s the dog’s name?” Mycroft asked him, glancing at the dog hair.

“Louis.”

Mycroft nodded. “Goodnight, Greg. I will be in touch.”

Greg walked out without another word. Mycroft watched him until the door closed behind him. He dragged his fingers through his hair and then spent the next minute flattening it down again.

* * *

**November 2007.**

**Location: Hugh Seagroves’ home, Courtenay Avenue, Highgate, London.**

It was a few minutes past midnight, though the same number of guests filled the dining room and living room as they had since 9pm. The fireworks had been lit half an hour after that, though Mycroft had watched them from the kitchen window rather than venture outside.

Hugh Seagroves was back together with his wife, though it was clear to anyone with eyes that it was an uneasy arrangement. She hovered when he spoke to another woman, no matter if the other woman was already married and stood with her own husband.

Anthea had left 20 minutes ago, and Sylvia Ross an hour before that.

There was a pat on the back of his shoulder as Hugh Seagroves stepped in beside him, battling back a yawn. “Why is everyone still here?” he asked, frowning.

“Because your wife is a masterful host,” Mycroft said.

“Hmm. God, I wish we stopped having these parties years ago.”

“I used to think you enjoyed the sense of occasion,” Mycroft said.

“I’m not much fussed about Guy Fawkes Night though. Sometimes I think he may have done the country a favour if he’d been successful. Can you even imagine?”

“I can’t, actually. I heard a rumour half an hour ago, and I’m waiting for the confirmation, that some computer disks with people’s personal information have gone missing.”

Hugh shook his head, letting out an exasperated sigh. “Well, it was only a matter of time, wasn’t it? And people claim digitising everything is the answer. Only last week, MI5’s website was hacked into. There’s nothing on it besides everything the public can access anyway, but it’s a good threat, isn’t it?”

“What did the hackers do?” Mycroft asked.

“Only changed the homepage to say nothing was secure.”

“Well, it turns out they may have been right.”

“Are you saying ‘I told you so’?” Hugh asked.

Mycroft sipped his wine. “I wouldn’t dream of it,” he replied with a wry smile. “But I admit, I don’t run a paperless office as you are endeavouring to do.”

“Sounds dangerous to me,” Hugh said. “Leaving all those files in your building, I mean. It’s not the most secure in London.”

“I didn’t say I was keeping it all at the office,” Mycroft replied. In truth, he and Anthea had begun moving files across to a secure bank vault three months ago, before deleting a number of files on the computers. They’d hired a new IT man to solve any problems with their technology, but he amount of information he was able to access had been severely restricted since Danny Finck proved to be such an error.

“I’m surprised you’re still here,” Hugh said. “I expected you to leave after the fireworks.”

“I had intended to,” Mycroft admitted. “But then Anthea embroiled herself in a debate about Government policies and I discovered your taste in wine wasn’t as bad as I was expecting.”

Hugh laughed. “Who was Anthea debating with?”

“The Earl of Dundee’s third son. The one who rather fancies himself as James Bond, and as far as I can tell, is nothing more than an errand boy.”

“Oh, don’t get me started,” Hugh muttered. “Nepotism, hey?”

Mycroft nodded and sipped the last of his wine. “I suppose I should go home,” he finally said. “I expect I’ll be needed in the morning regarding this data going missing.”

“How on earth has it gone missing?”

Mycroft put his glass down on the table. “And there is my mystery for tomorrow. Goodnight, Hugh.”

“Night, Mycroft.”

Mycroft collected his coat from one of the hangers on the way out, checking his phone for any updates.

* * *

The morning brought the discovery that the two disks contained the data of some 12 million people.

“It was sent in the post?” Mycroft asked in disbelief down the phone to one of the highest ranking Civil Servants in the country. “In the post?”

“Yes. From HMRC to the National Audit Office.”

“Where is the National Audit Office, exactly?” Mycroft asked, although he knew the answer.

“Um. Buckingham Palace Road. London.”

“And where is HMRC based?”

“Parliament Street in London.”

“London too? Now tell me, why does data pertaining to some 12 million people get posted when the two addresses are in the same city?”

“It was some junior administrators who-”

“-I don’t care who it was. Do you know how much that data will be worth to criminals? Millions of pounds, I imagine. And all the while, this Government proposes collecting even more data about its citizens.” Mycroft shook his head. “I need a full report and details on who is leading the investigation on my desk. There is no defence for this utterly catastrophic failure.” And then he hung up the phone, shaking his head in disbelief.

It wasn’t his fight, that he knew. But it irked him enough that he chose to take a personal interest in it.

“How many more years to the General Election?” Anthea asked later that afternoon, a wry smile on her face.

Mycroft shook his head. “Far too many,” he muttered. “For goodness sake.”

“I’ve got more good news for you.”

“Oh, how wonderful,” Mycroft muttered. “Has MI5 lost the contents of its surveillance list? Has the Prime Minister leaked the contents of his every discussion with the Queen?”

“You’ll be glad to know, it’s nothing on that scale.”

“Oh, you fill me with confidence,” Mycroft replied. “Go on.”

“There are three men in Barking being followed by some of our agents. As of yet, they haven’t done anything deserving of arrests, but they have family and friends in known terrorist organisations around the world.”

Mycroft hummed as he turned to his computer. “Carry on,” he murmured. “I am listening.”

“They went missing,” Anthea said.

Mycroft closed his eyes for a moment, taking a long, calming breath. “How, exactly, did they go missing?” he asked, turning back to her.

“Nadia Swift has launched an internal investigation.”

Mycroft shook his head. “At the next election, we could have men like that terrible MP Andrew Regis courting power. We already have Ruth Barker at the head of GCHQ collecting as much information as she can physically fit on the NSA’s servers. And our secret services cannot do their jobs, and we are leaking the public’s information…” He shook his head. “This country needs a cattle prod in the neck, and it needs one fast.”

“Shall I start looking for one on Ebay?” Anthea joked.

“Oh ha bloody ha.” Mycroft sighed and rubbed his forehead with his palm. “Have you got the names of those missing men?”

“I emailed them to you.”

Mycroft nodded. “These aren’t my battles, Anthea. These are the very basic of errors. And I shouldn’t be wasting my time for them, except for the fact that if I can’t keep control over the Government and the secret services at a very basic level then how can I possibly keep a watchful eye over their most important matters? It’s like the bins at Bakerville. Basic, fundamental mistakes. But left long enough, the problems grow and there are even more problems as a result.”

“What do you want?”

“Want?” Mycroft shook his head. “I want a project. As much as I hate to say it, the Rickard Luck investigation, though at times unpleasant and slow, was incredibly compelling. It kept my mind going in ways all of this… childishness doesn’t.”

“I’ll see if there’s something we can work on,” Anthea said.

Mycroft nodded. “Do,” he said, waiting for her to leave before he began to check his emails.

* * *

**December 2007.**

**Location: The Holmes' cottage, Gloucestershire.**

It was a family tradition that the Christmas presents remained untouched until after dinner.

Mycroft and Sherlock hadn’t said a lot to one another, and Mycroft knew it was noted. Thankfully, his parents had invited some line dancing friends round, and so he and Sherlock were not really needed to provide any entertainment.

Sherlock did play his violin, however. His parents played cribbage with their friends and Mycroft snuck outside for a cigarette. He closed his eyes as he breathed it in, his shoulders relaxing. He didn’t need to look around when he heard footsteps behind him to know it was Sherlock. Wordlessly, he passed over the packet and the lighter.

Sherlock didn’t reply, but he lit up his own cigarette and passed the packet back. “Have you ever been so bored at Christmas?” Sherlock asked.

Mycroft managed a smile at that. “1984,” he replied.

There was a pause and then Sherlock snorted. “I didn’t even have a bed. I had to sleep on the sofa.”

“At least you had that,” Mycroft muttered, recalling the mattress on the floor.

“Who’s idea was it to move house at Christmas?”

Mycroft shook his head. “God only knows,” he said. “But it wasn’t a good one.”

They each fell quiet for a moment, and Mycroft stamped his cigarette out on the patio, and then hid the butt under a flowerpot. He popped a mint into his mouth. “Today has been ghastly,” he said.

“Mmm. Why did you come?”

“Mummy threatened to cut my inheritance. I think she meant it.”

Sherlock laughed. “She will use that threat again, now she knows it’s effective.”

Mycroft smiled. “Yes, she will. I’ll be leaving first thing tomorrow. Do you want a lift to London?”

“No.”

“I’ll leave you to it,” Mycroft said, heading back inside. He opened his gifts then. A variety of DVDs, some ties, a pair of slippers, a new umbrella. All in all, a good collection. He sat by the fire and read while his parents played Monopoly with Sherlock. The wine flowed, and Mycroft didn’t mind the evening half as much as he’d minded the rest of the day.


	39. Dissonance

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter warnings for graphic torture, drugging, hallucinations, some references to human rights abuses and executions but not in any graphic detail.

**January 2008.**

**Location: Crusader House, Pall Mall, London.**

It was a Sunday afternoon. It had been drizzling all day, and Mycroft had shut the curtains again at lunchtime. He’d lit the fire and took his seat beside it, dressing in casual trousers and the pair of slippers he’d got for Christmas.

It was an afternoon for taking stock of his personal life. He’d increased the wages of his household staff, and ensured a New Year bonus arrived on Mrs Lunden’s doorstep by the time she arrived back from her time with her children over the Christmas period.

He changed his electricity and gas supplier, and paid the tax on his car. When he’d got distracted on the internet, he bought himself a Victorian Tantalus on Ebay, with three decanters inside.

He turned to his personal finances as well, checking over the spreadsheets his accountant had put together. He wrinkled his nose when he checked the current state of his investments. They were good, solid investments, or they had been at the time. He was no economist. In fact, he believed he’d been appalling at mathematics at school - but that was to his own high standards, and his mother’s standards, not to anyone else’s. Nonetheless, he knew his way around the stock market. And he knew the signs. The country’s stock market was on its way to a crash.

“It’ll be a recession if we’re not careful,” the Shadow Chancellor of the Exchequer had warned a few weeks earlier. “Then we really will be up shit creek. And it takes a lot of paddling to wade your way through shit.”

He’d leave it for now, Mycroft decided. These were problems for the long-term, and he knew his shares would weather most of the problems relating to a recession. Nonetheless, he moved some more money into his high interest savings account. He would need to live within his means a little more over the coming months.

For dinner, he ate chicken in a white wine sauce and followed it up with cheese and biscuits, and he read a little and listened to music.

He’d be back to work the next day, and back onto the wheel, but he was looking forward to being back. Four days away had been time enough. He had a country to run.

* * *

The problem was, there wasn’t a lot to do. Anthea was finding him odds and ends and encouraging him to go to the Diogenes. He did as she suggested, but without a project, he didn’t have much to think about while he was there.

Sherlock was behaving himself, there were no natural disasters occurring and things had even gone quiet on the North Korea front, which was slightly alarming, but no news was probably good news.

It was at a dinner at the home of the Commander at the Metropolitan Police that Mycroft heard about the Hudson problem.

“I’m sorry,” Mycroft had to say as he interrupted a conversation between the Commander and a man from America whom he hadn’t been properly introduced to. “There’s a British man in America being sentenced to death and… what? Nobody is making a fuss?”

“No, no, no, he’s not British. He has a British wife. But Frank Hudson’s not British.”

“Why are they executing him?” Mycroft asked.

“He’s charged with two murders. But the thing is, he’s telling the Americans that if they spare his life, he’ll give them all this info on drug cartels. But they’re not listening.”

Mycroft frowned. “So, his information could lead to more arrests?”

“Exactly!” the American man said. “But they’re not buying it.”

“Who are you?” Mycroft asked him.

The man grinned. “Well, I’m his lawyer.”

“Ah.” Mycroft smiled coolly. “So, you’re getting a pretty penny for keeping him alive as long as possible while appealing his sentence until you can appeal no more.”

“Long and short of it,” the man agreed.

“But we reckon there’s at least three huge drug cartels smuggling into the UK and across Europe,” the Commander said. “Frank Hudson could give us everything we need to bring them down. I mean, could you imagine, Mycroft? Cut down a huge network like that? The publicity for the Met would be enormous.”

“International recognition,” the lawyer agreed.

Mycroft nodded and returned to his soup, pondering the problem over. As it turned out, Frank Hudson was due another appeal in April, and Mycroft arranged to travel to the United States himself that month to see what he could possibly gleam from the situation.

It was interesting, at least, even if not strictly in his remit.

* * *

** February 2008. **

**Location: MI5 Headquarters, Thames House, Millbank, London.**

The enquiry had taken several months, but it had become clear that a group of suspected terrorists had gone missing because the agents tracking them had been having too much fun playing cards. They’d been found again though, thankfully, and an Executive Liaison Group was being set up to finally arrest them.

It would be a good opportunity to get Greg involved, Mycroft thought as he left the enquiry at Thames House. He called him and invited him to the meeting the following day.

Mycroft arrived early, setting himself up with his laptop and a coffee while he waited. He glanced up as Anthea led Greg into the room. He’d, rather unnecessarily, put a tie on and Mycroft couldn’t help the small smile when he saw it. He looked back down at his laptop and finished drafting an email.

Greg walked around the table, and checked the name tag in front of the seat besides Mycroft. He sat down, fidgeting with the sign before leaving it alone and leaning on his elbows instead. “You’re here early,” he said.

Mycroft hummed. “Sometimes being early to a meeting gives the impression you are the most prepared person in the room. On other occasions, arriving one minute before gives the impression you feel the meeting isn’t worth your time. I use both strategies, depending on the event at hand.” He closed his laptop and handed Greg the agenda.

Greg looked down at it. “This is definitely not my kind of meeting.”

“It’s a strategy meeting, no more, no less. It shouldn’t take more than an hour.”

Mycroft glanced up as Alfred Leben shuffled in, collecting himself a drink. “Head of Strategic Planning for MI5,” Mycroft murmured to Greg. “Believes himself to be completely irreplaceable. Regarded somewhat as a dinosaur.”

“What’s your role then?”

“I am merely an adviser.”

Greg laughed and sipped his coffee. “Course you are.”

“That’s Marie Tunstall,” Mycroft murmured as she walked in. “She invited the Metropolitan Police to become involved. She is your Commander’s new partner. Quite into the, shall we say, leather scene.”

Greg pulled a face. “Cheers, Mycroft. That was definitely an image I wanted in my head.”

Mycroft half smiled. “I sit in so many meetings. I just find myself deducing people constantly. I tend to share it with Anthea. She is getting quite skilled at it herself, I have to say.”

“What about that guy by the coffee?” Greg asked.

Mycroft glanced at him. He had ink marks on his fingers, and judging by his notepad, he was able to write in shorthand. He was on his laptop and Mycroft could see he had a game open on the screen. Single, though, despite his obvious attractiveness. “He will be taking the minutes,” Mycroft said. “Would probably find it quite easy to find himself a girlfriend if he didn’t spend so much time playing computer games.”

Greg bit back a laugh. “It’s good to see you.”

Mycroft nodded. “Yes. Yes, it’s good to see you too.”

“Right then,” Marie Tunstall said. “Shall we get started? As I think everyone knows, MI5 made a bit of a hash of their surveillance mission.”

“Charming,” Alfred muttered, tapping his pen against the desk. “We’ve already been over all of this. Nadia Swift carried out a full investigation.”

Marie paused for a moment, forced a smile, and then continued. “I am handing out some paperwork with the intelligence we have finally managed to secure, which shows the suspects have been building bombs in their home. Please take a few minutes to familiarise yourself with it.”

Mycroft took two of the papers as they passed around and handed one to Greg. “You don’t want to get involved in the politics of all of this,” he said to Greg, murmuring against his ear. He turned the first page open. “These are your suspects. There’s plenty more evidence that can be provided to you.”

“Feels like no one in here likes anyone,” Greg muttered.

Mycroft nodded. “You’re not wrong. Nadia Swift is Deputy Director General at MI5. She likes to remain in the loop at all times. Alfred Leben felt he should have been promoted to her position when the vacancy became available. He thinks Nadia interferes too much in his work, and he’s not wrong. But Alfred is… past his sell-by-date. Nadia blames him for this debacle, he blames her.”

“And who’s Marie Tunstall?”

“She is the chairman of Executive Liaison Groups for MI5 and the Metropolitan Police.”

Greg nodded, flicking through the papers. Marie began to talk everyone through the suspects. “How the heck haven’t these blokes been arrested already?” Greg asked.

Mycroft nodded. “Quite. It’s the reason we want to give this to the police. MI5 can’t be seen to be wasting our time on these sorts of hapless terrorists. A potential danger, yes. And we need to take them off the streets certainly. But was it really worth the hours put into it? It was led by a team who spent more time gambling than working. This should have been dealt with months ago.”

“But it looks good for us if we arrest them,” Greg said.

“Precisely. I felt after the Rickard Luck affair, I rather owed you.”

“You don’t owe me anything,” Greg said quietly, turning back to watch the slides. Mycroft bit his bottom lip and opened his laptop up again so he could do some other work while the meeting continued. Greg’s hand brushed against Mycroft’s arm as he reached for a coffee. Mycroft swallowed and tried to push it out of his mind.

When the meeting concluded, he stood up and tucked his laptop under his arm. Greg stood too, turning to him. “So, er. Cheers,” he said. “We’ll go and get these blokes then.”

Mycroft nodded. “Good. Thank you. Your… work will not go unnoticed or unappreciated.”

They stood watching each other for a few seconds, as though unsure what to do next. “Well, cheers, Mycroft,” Greg said, holding his hand out. “Been nice to… do some work like this.”

Mycroft nodded and shook his hand. “Yes,” he agreed. “I’m sure one day, work like this will look very good if you ever consider yourself for another promotion.”

Greg nodded. “Maybe. Yeah. Right. Well… I’ll be seeing you then.” He smiled tightly before walking out of the room. Mycroft followed him out a few minutes later.

The Metropolitan Police did outstanding work in arresting the suspects. Greg emailed him to thank him.

 

To: Holmes, Mycroft  
Subject: Arrest  
Hi Mycroft,  
Just wanted to say thank you for letting me in on that case. Spirits are really high here. Hasn’t been so good since before Bullock. Thanks. I owe you.  
Cheers,  
Greg.

 

_You don’t owe me_ , he thought, frowning. God, if anything, Greg had given him so much. He’d helped him with Sherlock, he’d given him some of the most wonderful nights he could remember… yes, they were tinged with regret now, but he couldn’t forget them. He couldn’t forget how Greg lit up his dark nights and warmed his heart.

 

Sender: Holmes, Mycroft  
Subject: Re: Arrest  
Dear Greg,  
You will never owe me anything.  
Kindest regards,  
Mycroft Holmes.

* * *

**March 2008.**

**Location: Claridge’s, Mayfair, London.**

Sylvia Ross had booked herself a suite in the prestigious hotel, just for a few days while her own home was being redecorated. Mycroft and Anthea sat across from her with scones and a tea.

“What are you working on?” Sylvia asked, putting her tea down. “You wouldn’t have asked for this meeting if you didn’t want something.”

“You misjudge me,” Mycroft murmured with a small smile.

Sylvia raised her eyebrows. “I don’t believe I do. Anthea has papers.”

Anthea laughed. “Yes, I do,” she said. She passed them over. “A while ago, a Detective Inspector was driving near the Thames. An SUV collided with his vehicle, knocking him into the Thames. The Inspector was lucky to make it out alive.”

Sylvia turned to Mycroft. “Your friend, many months ago who got hurt. Was this him?”

Mycroft paused for a moment. “I. Yes,” he admitted.

“I presume you never found the man responsible?”

“We did, actually, but only because he gave himself away. Unfortunately we lost him on the CCTV.”

“There was a terrorist organisation responsible,” Anthea continued. “Mr Holmes and I have been working on the problem for the past few months. We need more eyes than we have.”

“More CCTV,” Sylvia said.

Anthea nodded. “Madhubala Selling has been studying the CCTV patterns across London, and studied where we have the most CCTV and where we have the least. Using the information on past attacks or proposed attacks, we have pulled together a new proposal for CCTV locations.” Anthea handed Sylvia the map.

“It’s a lot,” Sylvia murmured.

“It’s also in its infancy,” Mycroft said. “We won’t get all of it. In fact, I imagine we will only get 25 per cent of our recommendations. But even if we got that… local councils are running out of money, and fast. All the signs indicate we are headed for a financial crisis. No one will want to fund CCTV cameras while they’re all desperately clinging onto funding for social care and public toilets.”

“You want to tap into my pot of money,” Sylvia said. She sipped her tea. “You won’t even get 25 per cent of this, Mycroft,” she frowned. “Not a chance.”

“Then I want to upgrade what we have got. Better cameras and better monitoring.”

“You want more control over the cameras,” Sylvia replied.

“No, that’s not-”

“-Mycroft,” she cut him off. “I am not a stupid woman. I may be old, but I am not past it. And I know you very well. Far better than you think I do. You don’t trust anyone to do their jobs, that’s quite evident. You’re right, these proposals are in their infancy, and I cannot allow any funding for this in its current state.” She handed the papers back to Anthea.

“What do you need?” Mycroft asked.

“I need an actual plan, not some fantasy. You already knew this was unworkable, so why bring it to me? How much money will you want?”

“Perhaps £4million.”

“It won’t happen. I may be able to wrangle £2.5million.”

“It would require considerable amendments.”

“Amendments you already knew you’d have to make,” Sylvia pointed out. “Come on now, Mycroft. Let’s not play games, shall we? We know one another far too well for that. Work out a real plan which no one will object to. I don’t want privacy campaigners camping on MI5’s doorstep. And then you and I will discuss funding. In the mean time, I will start pushing some money aside, so that when you are ready, we should be able to fund it.”

Mycroft nodded. “Very well,” he said. “Thank you.”

“This Detective Inspector who almost lost his life.” Sylvia frowned at him. “He must mean an awful lot to you.”

Mycroft paused for a moment. “He is the reason I want to do this,” he admitted, holding her eyes. “But he is not the only reason.”

“But it’s reason enough, isn’t it?” Sylvia nodded. “I understand very well. Now, Anthea, talk to me about your wedding. Was it a beautiful service?”

Anthea laughed. “It was a small service. We had just two witnesses. But it was wonderful.”

Sylvia smiled and patted her arm. “I’m pleased for you,” she said. “Now, would you both please fill me in on what on earth went wrong with the Barking terrorists? What on earth did Alfred Leben think he was doing?”

Mycroft chuckled and began to tell her the story.

* * *

**April 2008.**

**Location: Riyadh, Saudi Arabia.**

The hotel reception had a marble floor, with big green plants in pots throughout the square room. Mycroft stood with the suitcases while Anthea collected the keys. Jim Braum was still outside, having decided to do a sweep of the perimeter. Mycroft checked his watch. He had three hours until his first meeting, so that was plenty of time for a shower and a nap.

He glanced up as the revolving doors began to spin again and Jim strolled in with two police officers. “Meet Essa Khariri and Salman Al Sahlawi,” Jim said. “They’re our special security team, with the UK Government’s kind regards.”

Mycroft smiled and shook their hands. “Nice to meet you,” he said. “Weren’t you supposed to meet us at the airport?” he asked in Arabic.

The two men smiled in delight. “We were there, but it appears you went right past us,” Essa said. “We have another team here for the night shift.”

“Thank you,” Mycroft said, turning his head as Anthea wandered over with the keys. She bit back a curse as she dropped them on the floor and she laughed as she held her hand out.

“One of those is mine, one is Jim’s and one is your fancy room,” she said. “But I don’t know which is which anymore.”

Mycroft laughed and took one of the keys. “I’ll try my luck,” he said. He found the stairs and began to walk up to the second floor. It turned out he hadn’t selected the keys for the the suite - Jim had found those. But he told him it was luck of the draw and to enjoy it.

He stepped under the cool spray of the shower, sighing with delight. He washed his hair and wrapped a towel around his waist, before lying on the bed with the air conditioning on for a nap. He dressed and joined Anthea in her room an hour later, where they sat on her bed, for lack of chairs and a desk.

“Oil and weapons,” Mycroft murmured, fidgeting to try to get comfortable. “Our job is purely to flatter and placate, while the Government ministers carry out their negotiations on oil and weapons.”

Anthea nodded. “Flatter and placate those running a country with an abysmal human rights record,” she muttered. “I thought we were the good guys?”

“It’s the hypocrisy of our time,” Mycroft agreed. “We will openly criticise any country with a terrible human rights record. Unless that country happens to provide oil and have billions in its coffers, some of which it is practically begging to give to us in exchange for weapons and our silence on its human rights.”

“It’s appalling.”

Mycroft shrugged. “It is what it is. We’re not here to change the world.”

“What are we here for?” Anthea asked.

“I told you, to placate and-”

“-No, not here, not specifically Saudi Arabia. What is our role when we work alongside the Government?”

“To do what the Government wishes,” Mycroft said. “And if the Government wishes something stupid, then to subtly change the Government’s wishes to something a little less stupid.”

“Can’t we change its mind on Saudi Arabia?”

“Well, then we’d lose the oil. And that would also be stupid. There’s no way to make it work, Anthea. We try the stick and sanctions with North Korea and Iran and they continue to build their nuclear weapons. We give the carrot to Saudi Arabia and it continues to have no freedom of political expression. But we are making very small progress, occasionally, and that is all we can strive for.”

She shook her head. “Women’s rights are… non-existent.”

“Anthea, we’re here to do a deal for the British Government.”

“And when we get back, can we look at what we can do to encourage the country to improve its human rights record?”

Mycroft sighed. “When we return to the UK then you can take it on as your personal project if you like. You can’t lobby the Prime Minister, but you can see if you can find areas for improvement in our diplomatic relationship with Saudi Arabia and make recommendations.”

“Really?” she asked. “You’d let me do that?”

Mycroft nodded. “I see no harm in it, if you’re interested in it.”

“I am. Do you mind if I go out with Jim for a tour?”

“I don’t mind, but please be safe.”

“I’ll be with Jim and our security team.”

Mycroft nodded. “Very well,” he said. “This afternoon would be fine, but I need you tomorrow morning.”

She smiled. “Thank you.”

They packed up an hour later, and were driven to meet the Saudi and British ministers. From there, Anthea travelled with Jim to spend some time getting to know the area.

Mycroft slept well that night, still exhausted by the long flight. And he spent the morning and afternoon in more meetings. He had a dinner with Jim and Anthea in the evening, discussing how everything had gone. He and Anthea would be travelling to America the next day to meet with Frank Hudson and his lawyer.

“I got a present,” Anthea said with a smile. She opened her bag, revealing a bottle of whiskey.

Mycroft stared at it. “You shouldn’t have that,” he reminded her, his voice soft. “It’s illegal.”

“Our negotiations went without a hitch and they’re considering allowing a woman to compete in the London Olympics. Can’t we celebrate?”

Mycroft smiled a little. “I can’t deny that I’m tempted,” he replied. “Jim?”

“Nah, count me out. I’m shattered.”

Mycroft nodded and sipped his water. “We almost pushed our luck with the Olympics,” he said. “And it’s no guarantee they’ll actually go through with it.”

“It’s a start. Sport can change the world if you let it,” Anthea said. “What about that Black Power salute thing during the Olympics? It brought Civil Rights to the international stage.”

“Oh, and Mandela and the rugby,” Jim said.

Anthea frowned. “What did he do?”

“South Africa was… Mycroft, do you know the story?”

“It was divided,” Mycroft said. “The Springboks were a symbol of Afrikaner South Africans. But Mandela openly supported them during the World Cup. When Mandela shook the captain’s hand, it was seen as a symbol of a divided country becoming whole. Of course, it’s not nearly as simple as that.”

“I watched some of it on YouTube,” Jim said. “Amazing game. There’s a film coming out about it.”

Anthea frowned. “Do you mean you actually have time to watch films?” she joked.

Jim laughed. “I bloody try to,” he said with a grin. “Sometimes I even manage to go to the football.”

“Oh come on,” Mycroft muttered. “You both work yourselves too hard. You’re quite capable of going home on time. I will not feel guilty for all those nights you work late.”

Jim and Anthea exchanged an amused smile. “Right, boss,” Jim said standing. “No workin’ late for me. I’m going to bed and I’m going to watch a film.”

“I don’t think they will allow you to watch those sorts of films here,” Anthea said with a smirk.

Jim grinned. “Oi,” he said. “Nope. It’s Batman for me.”

Anthea laughed and the three of them began to walk back to their rooms. “Mr Holmes? Will you have a drink with me?” she asked.

“Certainly. Are you sure you won’t join us?” Mycroft asked Jim.

Jim smiled and shook his head. “Nah. Cheers though. I’ll see you tomorrow.” He ducked into his own bedroom and Mycroft shrugged and opened his own door.

Anthea found a couple of plastic cups, and Mycroft poured them each some of the whiskey. He had a sniff and pulled a face. “As far as celebrations go… I don’t think this is going to be a tasty one.”

Anthea laughed, sitting cross-legged on the bed. She had a sip of the drink and coughed. “Oh. Yuck.”

Mycroft sat down opposite her, leaning against the headboard. He wrinkled his nose as he smelt it again and then tasted it. It burned his throat as he swallowed. “Oh good lord,” he muttered. He held the cup out. “Well, to us,” he said.

Anthea laughed and tapped her cup to his and they both had another sip. “I wish I could say it got better in the drinking but…”

“Worse. Definitely worse.”

She laughed. “Is Jim okay?” she asked.

Mycroft nodded. “Yes, he’s fine. I don’t believe he drinks alcohol very often.”

“Too similar to the drugs, I suppose,” Anthea mused. “Too much like giving up control.”

Mycroft tilted his head. “Is that how you see him?” he asked.

“Jim? No. He likes serving, and he likes having a job to do. He likes a little bit of uncertainty in his life. But the drugs and alcohol create more uncertainty than he’d like.”

“I don’t know him very well.” Mycroft pressed his lips together. “I know everything about his life but I don’t… know him.”

“He has a long-term girlfriend who has a young daughter.”

Mycroft glanced at her. “He does?”

“Yes, he does.”

Mycroft sipped his drink. It was still disgusting, but he found it was getting marginally better. “How is Arnou?”

“Very well, thank you.”

“And married life?”

“Not very different from unmarried life. Apart from.” Anthea held up her hand and showed Mycroft her wedding ring. “Aside from that… we still have separate bank accounts, our own cars, our own space… The only difference is the certificate.”

“But you’re glad you did it?”

“Yes,” she said with a smile. “Yes, we’re glad we did it.”

“What did you think of Saudi Arabia?”

“Impressive,” she replied. “The city is extraordinary. Full of contrasts, I suppose.”

Mycroft topped up both their cups with more whiskey. “There are a lot of countries in the world like that.”

“I prefer good old Blighty,” Anthea said with a smile. “But it is nice to see the world.”

“I don’t feel as though I’ve seen very much of it. I rather end up locked in rooms with politicians.”

Anthea smiled, taking a long swig from her drink. “Dare I ask how you are?”

Mycroft raised his eyebrows. “I’m not sure if you should be so bold.”

“It’s a polite enquiry.”

“I’m wary of the question, in the way you asked it. It feels as though there’s an impending inquisition.”

She shook her head. “No. There isn’t. How are you?”

“I’m fine.”

“It’s a British thing. A conversation starter. Good morning, how are you? I’m fine, how are you? I’m fine too.”

Mycroft smiled. “No one ever tells the truth.”

“No. Stiff upper lip, that’s what we do. How are you?”

“I’m fine, Anthea. How are you?”

“I’m fine too. Is it my place to say I worry about you?”

“No. It’s not.”

She nodded. “Is there anyone who does?”

“My parents, I imagine, do their share of worrying.”

“What happened to Greg Lestrade?”

Mycroft pressed his lips together. “Anthea, you and I do not have that sort of relationship.”

“You asked about my marriage,” she pointed out. “Let me ask about your life too.”

“He’s seeing someone new.”

“Yes, I know. I looked her up, because I knew you wouldn’t.”

Mycroft paused for a moment. He topped his cup up again. His head already felt lighter, the alcohol already weaving some magic. “Why?” he asked.

“Because you told me to look after his welfare and surveillance, and I needed to check she wasn’t some sort of spy. She’s not, by the way.”

Mycroft managed a half smile. “Tell me.”

“Her name is Jane Starnes. She’s a teacher. Primary school teacher. A bit of a wild teenager, by some accounts.”

“How so?”

“She has no criminal record. She never committed a crime as an adult.”

“But?”

“She was arrested as a teenager for drug possession. She also had a spell in a rehabilitation centre, according to her medical notes.”

“Drug addiction?” Mycroft asked, frowning.

Anthea nodded. “She doesn’t appear to have anything to do with drugs now. And she is a teacher, so she clearly passed all of their checks into her past.”

Mycroft wrinkled his nose. “Greg Lestrade does have a tendency to want to save people. First Sherlock, now her.”

“I don’t think she needs saving,” Anthea said. “She seems very capable to me.”

“What else is she?” Mycroft asked.

“Fashionable, in an eccentric sort of way. Friendly enough. Caring. A dark history somewhere.”

“Her relationship with her parents?” Mycroft suggested.

“What else could it be? Your turn. Lestrade.”

Mycroft frowned. “What do you want me to say, exactly?”

“Tell me about him.”

Mycroft bit his lip. “You know the man.”

Anthea shook her head. “Not at all,” she said. “I wouldn’t have said he had a tendency to save people. I would have said he… has an open heart, perhaps. That he doesn’t judge, and that he takes his time over forming opinions about people. Aside from that… I hardly know the man.”

“He’s kind,” Mycroft said, staring into his drink. “Compassionate. Loyal. Amusing. Charming. Did I say kind?”

“Yes,” she said.

“He’s… considerate. A little brash, a little rough on some of the edges, he has a bit of a temper sometimes. He cares so much about everything. He sees the world… he sees the good in it. And as you say. He has an open heart.”

“You love him.”

Mycroft bit his lip. “Anthea…”

“No. Come on. You do.”

Mycroft swallowed, staring down at his knees. He took another sip of his drink.

“I don’t blame you,” Anthea said. “Like you say he’s kind, compassionate, loyal. In love with you too.”

Mycroft snorted. “Don’t be stupid.”

“I know these things. You’re not an easy man to like, Mycroft. You know that as well as I do. You and I almost got off on the wrong foot, didn’t we, but we struggled through it. He always answers when you call. He looks out for Sherlock in ways no one else ever has, as far as I can see it. He looks at you… like you’re the only thing he sees. The only person in the room. I’ve walked him to your office so many times, and he talks to me and asks how I am and he’s polite and talkative. Then he sees you, and I’m suddenly invisible. He loves you. An idiot can see it. Unfortunately, he may be worse than an idiot, because I don’t think he’s realised just how much he cares for you.”

“And if you’re right?” Mycroft asked. “What does that change?”

“Nothing at all, as long as he doesn’t know you love him.”

“I won’t have another relationship with him. Not when it would put his life at risk all over again. So how can I possibly tell him? ”

Anthea sighed. “You can’t. But I don’t think you should have driven him away.”

“I had no choice.”

“Arnou had a choice too. As did I.”

Mycroft shook his head. “It was different with you two.”

“Why?”

“It just… it just was, Anthea. Your threat was far away, and you both knew it existed. There were two attempts on Greg’s life within months of each other. The threat was very real. It could still exist, for all I know. My next investigation could lead him back into the firing line.”

“But you won’t give it up, will you? This life?”

Mycroft shook his head. “Would you sacrifice your work for love?” he asked.

She paused, frowning. She grabbed the bottle and topped her cup up, and then Mycroft’s. “I don’t know,” she said after a few long seconds. “I don’t honestly know.”

“We can’t always have it all.”

“No, we can’t,” she said. “God, I’m drunk.”

Mycroft laughed and nodded. “Yes, as am I. I’ve said far too much.”

“Actually, Mycroft. I might go to bed. I feel a bit sick.”

“We don’t need to leave here until early afternoon, you’ll be fine after a sleep. Drink some water.”

“I will.” She stood up, waving her arms to steady herself as she laughed. “Whew, that stuff is strong. Goodnight, sir.”

“Goodnight, Anthea.” He watched her leave before topping his cup up for a final time. He had a few sips and lay down on his back. He closed his eyes, thoughts of Greg swirling in his mind. He lifted his hand to wipe a bead of sweat from his forehead. A wave of nausea came over him. But he couldn’t move. He leaned to the side to reach for his phone and only succeeded in knocking it off the table. He rolled over and the world spun. It was blurry. It went back for a second. His eyes fell closed. And he didn’t open them again.

* * *

Cold liquid was thrown into his face, and he spluttered. He was on his knees on the floor, his hands tied behind his back. He coughed and opened his eyes and stared up into the eyes of a man with eyes so dark they were almost black. He opened his mouth to speak and then a boot slammed into his stomach. He rolled onto his side, gasping for breath.

He squeezed his eyes shut, tears forming at the corners. He swallowed back the vomit at the back of his throat. “Who-” he started to say, but he was kicked again, and he cried out in agony, pulling his knees up to his chest.

Assess, he tried to tell himself. Open your eyes and assess your surroundings. He choked back a sob and forced his eyes open. Warehouse. Maybe. Cold. The ground was cold under his body, but the air was humid.

He heard a door open and slam shut. “You got the wrong one!” a man shouted in Arabic. Something was kicked over, and it bounced off the concrete floor.

“It was the same room you told us to-”

“-But this is a man, I told you it was a woman!”

Mycroft swallowed. Woman. Anthea? They wanted Anthea. She’d given him the wrong keys when she dropped them on the floor... He was in what should have been Anthea’s room. They wanted her, not him.

“Who are you?” the man nearest him asked, before kicking him in the stomach again. Mycroft groaned, trying to roll onto his front. “Where is Olivia Deneuve?”

Mycroft paused for a second, closing his eyes. Olivia Deneuve was one of Anthea’s former names, he knew that much. Was it the one she was using in 2004? The name before Anthea? God, he couldn’t recall. His head pounded. He was kicked again and then the binds around his wrists were pulled and he was yanked up onto his knees.

His right knee ached, the knee he’d injured all those years ago in Iran. He survived that, thanks to Jimmy Dine. He doubted he could expect the same again. All he could do was protect Anthea as best he could.

He tried to stare up at one of his attackers, the man with the black eyes, but his vision was blurred, everything swimming. He was only able to stay on his knees without collapsing because the man was holding him up. He received a blow to the face. “Do you know her?” the man screamed at him.

“I-who?” Mycroft managed to ask. The man let go of his binds and he collapsed back down onto the concrete. Everything went black.

* * *

“Mycroft,” he could hear his name, almost like a dream, soft and gentle. “It’s alright now. You’re gonna be alright.” He hummed, and tried to open his eyes, but he couldn’t yet, they were too heavy. He couldn’t move a muscle.

“Greg?” he whispered, frowning. “How is… you can’t…” He cried out as he was kicked and then forced up to a standing position.

A man yelled something in Arabic, but Mycroft couldn’t translate it. He hardly heard it. His legs were like jelly beneath him, and he could hardly hold himself up as he was tied to something. He opened his eyes and he shuddered. His shirt had been stripped off him. The column was cold and hard against his skin, the bright lights burning his eyes.

Questions were being shouted at him, in English and in Arabic, but he couldn’t hear a word. All he could hear was the ringing in his ears. The blow of a whip came down on his back, and he was so out of it, he couldn’t even hear himself scream.

“Mycroft,” the voice came again. Mycroft forced his eyes open, and he knew his mind was playing tricks on him, because that was Greg stood in front of him, but he knew he was not really there at all.

He let out a quiet sob. “No,” he whispered. “I know it’s not you.”

“It’s gonna be okay. We’ll sort it out.” There were more shouts and questions, but Mycroft didn’t hear them. All he heard was Greg’s voice. “You’ll be okay.”

“I don’t… I can’t… I’m done, Greg.”

“No, no, no, no. I’m not ready for you to go yet. Neither is Sherlock. You’ve got to come back to us, yeah? You’ve got to come back to me.”

“I can’t,” Mycroft sobbed out. “I can’t even be with you.”

Two further blows from a whip came down onto his back. The ropes around his wrists were untied. He collapsed to the floor, holding his hands up to his face.

“I will ask you once more,” his captor shouted at him. “Where is Olivia Deneuve?”

“Mycroft!” Greg shouted at him. “You’ve got to get up, for God’s sake.” He shook his head. “Mycroft.”

Greg, go away, Mycroft willed. Please. Leave me.

“No. I never will,” Greg said to him. “They’ve untied you, you stupid, stubborn bastard. You can get out of this. You can come home. Now, sodding do it.”

It took the strength, and the energy he had no idea he had. But he forced his arm up, and swung, and with all his strength, he launched his elbow into his attacker’s balls. The man yelled out in pain, and Mycroft was kicked again. But there were sounds that he hadn’t noticed before. A helicopter’s propellers.

Mycroft groaned, lying on his side on the floor. “Greg,” he whispered. “I tried and I couldn’t… couldn’t… Greg…”

“It’s okay,” Greg murmured, and he sounded so close somehow.

There was shouting. A pop, pop of guns. Of screaming. So loud. Mycroft waited for it. For death to claim him. He opened his eyes and he saw Greg there, crouched in front of him, his eyes so full of compassion. “Mycroft,” he murmured. “Stay with me, please. I just need you to stay.”

“Greg,” Mycroft whispered. Strong arms wrapped around him and brought him up to his feet. He couldn’t stand. He was being carried, carried out… “Greg… no, Greg, he’s… there, he’s…”

“It’s alright,” came an English accent. “Just think about Greg. Whoever Greg is.”

“Greg’s in the room, he’s…”

“There’s no Greg,” another voice said. “It’s fine, honest.” Mycroft groaned, and felt himself being eased down along some seats. Car seats. “S’alright, boss,” Jim Braum said. “We’ve got ya. You’re safe now.”


	40. Wounds

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for aftermath of torture, and mentions of PTSD. Thanks to all those who commented on the last chapter - I love you all to pieces. I don't have time to reply individually as I'm falling asleep at my laptop but many hugs. You all keep me going on this ridiculously long journey!

**April 2008.**

**Location: Riyadh, Saudi Arabia.**

The first thing he felt was the pain. He hissed and opened his eyes, blinking into the dim lights of his hotel room. The curtains were closed, but the sun was just beginning to rise behind them. Mycroft squinted, frowning when he saw Jim Braum stood by the door, handgun in hand.

Mycroft groaned and Jim turned to him and shot him a sympathetic smile. “How you feeling?” he asked.

“Stupid question,” Mycroft muttered. He reached up to touch his head, and felt a lump on his forehead. He pushed the covers down and studied the bruising across his chest and stomach.

He closed his eyes, fighting to recall something, anything, but it was all a desperate blur. He went to sit up, but his back stung and he thought better of it. “What’s the damage?” he asked.

“No broken bones. A lot of bruising. Three whip marks on your back.”

“Anthea?” Mycroft asked.

“Unwell, but she’s fine. Sleeping.”

“They drugged us.”

Jim nodded. “We think so. I got you checked over by a doctor, but I figure we’d best get out of the country as soon as possible. You were hallucinating, I think. But we managed to check you over for broken bones. You’ve got a sprained wrist though. We going straight back home?”

“Mmm. We were supposed to be going to America, but I don’t think I can stomach the thought of it. How long until we need to leave for the airport?”

“A couple of hours.” Jim walked over to him and handed him some paracetamol. “For the pain.”

“I know what paracetamol is for,” Mycroft muttered. Jim held his arm out and Mycroft used it to lift himself up to a sitting position. He winced and swallowed the pills dry. Jim grabbed a bottle of water from the fridge and offered it to him. “What happened?” Mycroft asked. He could picture some sort of warehouse. And the shouting… screaming… “How did you find me?”

“Heard a scuffle in the hallway,” Jim said. “I followed them in the car, called for back-up from the security with the Government blokes… it took them a little while. Too long.”

“They got there, that’s what matters.”

“Anthea was pretty ill. She almost passed out but… I think she’ll be fine.”

Mycroft nodded slowly. “She was the target,” he said, beginning to recall. “But she was in the wrong room. We need to leave here as soon as possible.”

“We can get a car as soon as you’re ready.”

Mycroft nodded and glanced down at the bruising across his stomach. “I hardly remember…” he murmured, frowning. “Flashes. I have flashes of… What does Anthea know?”

“Nothing yet. She’s been really out of it. We think you were both drugged. I guess it was the booze.”

Mycroft nodded. “Will you leave me now?”

“I’ll be just outside the door,” Jim replied. Mycroft frowned as he watched him go and then sighed, squeezing his eyes closed. He reached over his shoulder and felt the dressings covering the cuts on his back.

His memory was hazy at best, though little snapshots were beginning to come back to him. Like Greg. He couldn’t work out why he felt as though Greg had been so close to him.

He remembered the crack of a whip. That explained his back.

He pulled the covers back and tried to shuffle out of bed. He let out an anguished cry of pain. Everything hurt. Everything ached. He washed as best he could using a flannel. And then he called Jim in.

“Don’t mention a word of this,” he muttered as Jim helped him into his shirt and waistcoat.

“Why don’t you wear something a bit more… practical?” Jim asked.

“Because I don’t want Anthea knowing what happened,” Mycroft replied. He glanced at the bruise on his face. “I can’t hide everything from her, but I’d rather she didn’t know the full extent of it.”

“She doesn’t need protecting.”

“I don’t need her concern,” Mycroft countered. He rubbed his eyes. “I need Sherlock to go on the America trip.” God, he couldn’t face talking to Sherlock. “Is Anthea…”

“She’ll be awake enough to explain everything to him,” Jim said. “I’ll go and talk to her now.”

“Thank you,” Mycroft said softly, sipping some water. He waited until Jim left before carefully lowering himself down onto the bed again. He forced himself to block out the pain. He closed his eyes, and waited until Jim collected him to take him downstairs to leave.

Anthea was already in the car when Jim helped him down the stairs. Mycroft reached the doors to the hotel, brushed off Jim’s arm and stood up straight as he walked over to it. He masked the pain as he took his seat beside her. She was pale, her hair tied up in a loose ponytail.

“You look dreadful,” he murmured to her, watching as Jim slid into the front seat of the car.

“Your face,” she said, frowning. “No one will tell me… no one said you were hurt.”

“I’m fine. This is the worst of it.”

She bit her lip. “Mycroft. What… who?”

“They were after Olivia Deneuve,” he replied. He glanced down at his knees, biting his bottom lip. “Why would they think she was still alive?” he asked.

A heavy silence fell between them. Anthea was staring at him, bewildered. And then she glanced out of the window, tipping her head back against the headrest. “Shit,” she whispered.

“Quite.”

“I used the wrong credit card.”

He frowned. “I’m sorry?”

“After the incident in Pakistan, I had to change my name, as you know. MI6 created one identity for me and I… I did the other. I wanted a spare alias in case I ever had to make a quick getaway. I transferred most of the money from Olivia Deneuve’s bank account into the MI6 holding account, so they could put the money into Anthea Boyette’s. But the original account… I just changed the name for it. I was in a rush. After Arnou’s visit where he turned up to kill me, I thought I had days before someone would find me and I didn’t have time to wait for MI6 to set up my new identity. And so I changed the Olivia Deneuvre account to the name Michaela Johnson. I didn’t touch it. Not until I booked the tickets for this trip. I was at home when you asked me to book the tickets, and I’d left the Couer de Lion credit card at the office so I just… my normal card, it was running low because of the honeymoon. So I used the Michaela Johnson account.”

“Which was still being monitored because it had belonged to Olivia Deneuvre. And so they found out about the flights. And the hotel.”

“I didn’t even think…”

Mycroft shook his head. “No, that’s very clear.”

“Mycroft…”

“How could you have been so stupid?” he snapped.

She stared at him, stung. “I know. But at the time I was in a rush and-“

“-Is Olivia Deneuve even dead, as far as they are aware?” Mycroft asked.

“I don’t know,” Anthea admitted. “I had enough trouble to get MI6 to create me a new identity as it was, without them ensuring she was dead too.”

Mycroft shook his head in disbelief. “There may still be people after you.”

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s too late for apologies.” He leaned back in his chair.

“Mr Holmes-”

“-I don’t want to hear it,” he muttered. “Did you call Sherlock?”

“Yes. Yes, he will go to America in your place.”

“That was remarkably easy. What was the catch?”

“He wants to be paid.”

“Hm. Very well. You’ll need to find a body that can feasibly be yours. You’ll have to arrange for some sort of story in the press about Olivia Deneuve’s body being found on the roadside in Saudi Arabia. She’ll have to be beaten beyond recognition. Speak to Hugh Seagroves, he should be able to arrange something for you.”

“Yes. Of course. Mycroft, what happened?”

Mycroft shook his head. “It doesn’t matter now, does it?” he said softly, turning to gaze out of the window. “It’s done.”

“I am so sorry.”

“You’ll have to move home,” he murmured. “Jim and his team… they killed the men who captured me, but they may not be all of the people who were after you. Yourself and Arnou won’t be safe in your flat.”

“Arnou will want to hunt them down himself.”

“I expect he will,” Mycroft agreed. 

“He could… he could end up getting himself killed.”

Mycroft turned to her and raised his eyebrows. “Then so be it,” he snapped. “You should have come to me if you needed another alias rather than making a mess out of trying to do it yourself.”

“It was four years-”

“-I don’t care how long ago it was.”

“Sir,” Jim muttered from the driver’s seat.

Mycroft sighed and closed his eyes. “Just leave it,” he said. “Just be quiet.”

He sat alone on the flight. He’d been warned against taking his sleeping pills in case they reacted with the drugs in his system and so he couldn’t rest and he couldn’t settle. He ate a few crackers with cheese and tried to sleep. But he couldn’t get comfortable. He closed his eyes, and all he saw was a warehouse and two black eyes glaring down at him. Every sudden sound made him flinch.

The painkillers eased most of the pain, but he still ached everywhere.

Anthea slept. A blanket was pulled up to her chin, her face still pale.

“I was too hard on her,” Mycroft said to Jim as he brought over a glass of water. “I can’t work out whether I should have her fired or not.”

“Sleep on it,” Jim told him.

The flight took just under seven hours. Jim carried Mycroft’s suitcase for him and led him to the car. “Come to Crusader House,” Mycroft said to Anthea, frowning. “I think we should talk.”

She nodded, her hands crossed in her lap. She helped him carry his bag up the stairs and went to use the bathroom while he eased himself down onto his sofa. He checked his pocket watch and took some more painkillers.

Anthea walked out of the bathroom and slipped her shoes off. Mycroft gestured to a chair on the other side of the room and she took it.

“You’ll need to contact Hugh tonight,” he told her. “And you shouldn’t go home. Stay in a hotel and find somewhere else to live.”

She nodded. “Yes, sir.”

“I’m too exhausted to make any further decisions,” Mycroft admitted. “I have a lot… a lot to consider but… I’m too tired.”

“Is there anything I can do?”

“No, there’s nothing.”

“What happened?” she asked.

“I was kidnapped because they wanted you. You were the target, not me.” He shook his head. “You should go,” he said. “I won’t be at the office tomorrow.”

“I understand. I’ll update you.”

Mycroft nodded. “Do.”

He watched as she got up and put her shoes back on before leaving the flat. He reached up to rub his face. Now he’d have to find a way off the settee, he thought. He would wait a few minutes, until the pain subsided.

From behind him, the door opened. There were Anthea’s footsteps. And another step. A man’s step, familiar and…

“Anthea!” Mycroft snapped as he recognised that determined walk. Not Greg. No. Not now. It flashed in his head then, of kneeling on the ground, of Greg reaching out to him, begging for him to live… He shook his head. He lifted his eyes and his eyes met Greg’s dark brown ones. And how must he look? Broken. Damaged. Wrecked.

“What the fuck happened to you?” Greg asked.

Mycroft groaned. “What are you doing here?” he asked.

“He was persistent, Mr Holmes,” Anthea said. There was a pointed look in her eyes. ‘See?’ she was almost saying. ‘And you don’t believe that he loves you?’

“You didn’t try very hard to stop me,” Greg told her.

She rolled her eyes in response. Mycroft went to shake his head, but the movement jarred his neck. He thought he should probably get some heat on his shoulder.

“What are you doing here?” he asked Greg, frowning at him.

“I came to ask where the hell Sherlock disappeared to. But what the hell happened to you?”

“I encountered a… difficulty,” Mycroft told him, glancing at Anthea. ‘See?’ he wanted to say. ‘It’s not about me, it’s about Sherlock’.

“Looks like a lot of difficulties to me.”

Mycroft sighed. “Anthea. Leave us.”

She nodded once and left, taking her phone out of her pocket. Mycroft watched her. She walked slower than usual, but she seemed better for the most part. If a little subdued.

“What happened?” Greg asked when she closed the door. “Are you okay? Do you need anything?”

“It’s classified and yes and no.”

Greg snorted and took a seat on the sofa beside him. “You don’t look alright.”

“Then why ask?” Mycroft said, raising his eyebrows.

“Please tell me the other guy looks worse.”

May as well lay it on the table, Mycroft thought. “He’s dead.”

Greg balked, just a little, but shrugged one shoulder, just a fraction. “Right then. Well, yeah. I guess he does.” A few moments of silence passed between them while Greg studied him. “Do you need anything?” he finally asked. “A drink?”

“No.” But Greg went anyway. Mycroft rolled his eyes. “Water. Please.”

Greg turned to smile at him before heading into the kitchen. He had no idea, did he, how that smile was a stab in the gut? Mycroft winced as he moved, reaching down to touch his stomach. He’d have to take a few days off, he supposed. He could barely get off the settee. He longed for his bed and he couldn’t very well go there yet because Greg was in the kitchen. And he knew the man, and Greg wouldn’t leave until he knew Mycroft was okay. Damn him. Damn it all.

Greg carried a glass through and held it out. Mycroft reached for it, but it only made his neck twinge and the muscles in his stomach pull tort. He winced. He’d have cried out, had he been alone. Greg dropped to his knees in front of him. “Hey,” he said, his tone gone gentle now. “Let me help, yeah? Stop being so stubborn.”

Greg held the glass up to Mycroft’s lips as he curled his hand around the base. His thumb covered Greg’s finger. Unintentional, and just a little thing, but he didn’t move, seeking comfort from the small touch. He had a few small sips, but the effort of sitting so straight was beginning to hurt even more.

Mycroft nodded that he was done and Greg put the glass down. “Tell me if you need anymore. Where's Sherlock?” Greg asked.

“In America. Florida.”

“Why?”

“He's preventing a man being executed.”

Greg stared at him. “What? Why?”

“Because it is imperative this man doesn't die.”

“But why is Sherlock doing it?”

“Because I cannot do the job looking like this. So I entrusted my brother.”

Greg raised his eyebrows. “Is that really a good idea?”

“We shall see.” He moved, hardly at all, and he winced at the pain.

“Have you slept yet?” Greg asked.

“No. Not for hours.”

“Alright.” Greg stood up. “Come on. Come with me, I’m getting you to bed.”

“I don’t need help,” Mycroft muttered. Oh, but he did and he despised that little fact.

“Sure you don’t. I’m not helping. I’m just overseeing.” Greg held his arm out.

No, Mycroft thought stubbornly. I won’t do it. I will not rely on you. He grabbed the arm of the chair and tried to pull himself up. But he just couldn’t. He slumped back against the chair, groaning, gripping onto the rest.

Greg held his arm out again. “Mycroft. Arm. Use it.”

Mycroft stared at him, glaring a little. But he reached out and curled his hand around Greg’s forearm. He held on tightly to the settee as Greg eased him up. His body rebelled against the movement, every muscle screaming at him. He stumbled a little, and he found himself leaning onto Greg’s side, his fingers gripping onto his arm. He shook with the pain, and dropped his head, embarrassed.

“Alright,” Greg whispered. “Alright, come on. Don’t need to be strong, yeah? It’s just me.”

Mycroft nodded. He shuffled along the floor as Greg led him to his bedroom. It took more than a minute to reach the door and Greg opened it for him. He led him to the bed and carefully helped Mycroft sit down. He closed his eyes, letting out a disgruntled sigh. You can go now, he wanted to say. But Greg was already unlacing his shoes.

“I am not having you undress me,” Mycroft said.

Greg looked up at him and raised his eyebrows with a sceptical smile. “Go on then. Untie your own shoes.” Mycroft tried to lean down, but he couldn’t do it. He cried out in pain. “See?” Greg said. “And it’s not like I haven’t seen it before.”

Mycroft swallowed. Damn him to the very depths of hell, he thought. He stared at the wall as Greg took his shoes off and then his socks. How had he even put them on in the first place? he began to wonder. How many hours had he been awake? He couldn’t even focus anymore.

“Right. What hurts?” Greg asked.

Mycroft paused, assessing. “My left wrist is sprained. My right shoulder is painful, though, I don’t think too badly injured. I have bruising to my stomach and cuts on my back.”

Greg stared at him. “What the hell did you let someone do to you?”

Mycroft glared at him. “I didn’t  _let_ anyone do anything.”

“Please just tell me you didn’t go to Iran.”

“No, Greg. I did not go to Iran.”

“Good,” Greg muttered.

Greg stood up and he unfastened Mycroft’s jacket. “Careful,” Mycroft told him.

“Yeah, I got that,” Greg said with a half smile. Mycroft gingerly lifted his arm and Greg eased the sleeve down. He took it off and folded it, putting it down on the chest of drawers. Mycroft frowned a bit. It would crease like that, he thought. It wasn’t proper to treat a Saville Row jacket in that way. But he simply didn’t have the energy to argue the point. Greg began to unfasten Mycroft’s tie.

Mycroft stared down at his knees. He was pathetic. All he wanted was to be free of this man, and now he was relying on him. What would he have done if Greg hadn’t been here?

He’d have called Jim, probably. And Jim would have been dutiful, but Mycroft knew he’d have felt even more pathetic than he did already. Jim had done enough for him. Mycroft didn’t want to owe him anymore than he already did. Owing him his life was more than enough, thank you very much.

Mycroft lifted his wrists so Greg could unfasten the cufflinks. “They go in the little box on the chest of drawers,” Mycroft murmured. Greg turned around. “The black one, with the triangles carved into it.”

Greg lifted the lid and dropped the cufflinks into it. “Is it a special kind of box?” he asked.

“Not particularly. I picked it up in a marketplace somewhere.”

Greg turned back to him and began unbuttoning his waistcoat. They slid it off his left shoulder and then turned to the right. Mycroft hissed in pain as he jarred his shoulder.

“I’m sorry,” Greg said. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s not your fault.”

Greg folded it. Mycroft glanced at it there in his hands. “You should hang that,” he muttered.

“And the jacket too?” Greg asked with a knowing smile.

Mycroft nodded, a little relived. “Would you?” he asked.

Greg grinned, collecting the jacket from the chest of drawers. He carried it over to Mycroft’s wardrobe. “Does this have a particular hanger as well?” he asked.

“I. Well, yes, but I’ll sort it out. Don’t worry. Just hang it up anywhere.”

Greg nodded and put everything into his wardrobe. “Don’t know how you find the time to be so neat,” he said.

“It saves time in the long run.”

Greg shut the wardrobe and turned to face him. Their eyes met, and Mycroft frowned. His shirt.

“Just let me help,” Greg said.

Mycroft nodded, and Greg stood between his legs as he began to unfasten the buttons. His knuckle brushed against Mycroft’s chest and for a second he could hardly breathe. He stared at one button on Greg’s shirt, focusing on it, trying not to savour the feel of his hands on his skin. Trying not to wish he’d touch him again, accidentally or… not.

Greg reached the last button. He took a step back. “Mycroft.”

Mycroft glanced down at the bruises. He wished he could say it was worse than it looked but… “I’m fine,” he said.

Greg swallowed. He stepped close again and eased Mycroft out of his shirt. “I guess you can do your own trousers?” Greg asked.

Mycroft nodded, not wholly convinced, but he knew there were some lines not worth crossing. He undid his belt. “Your arm?” he asked. Greg held it out for him and Mycroft managed to pull himself up onto his shaky legs. He unfastened his trousers and let them drop down to his ankles. He stepped out of them. Greg helped him to sit back down. “Put them in the laundry bag,” Mycroft murmured. “By the door.”

Greg did as he asked. Mycroft sighed and closed his eyes for a moment. He reached behind him with his left hand and he could feel one of the dressings peeling off his back.

“Greg?” he murmured, staring at his knees. “I believe a wound of my back needs redressing.”

He felt the bed move as Greg sat down behind him. Mycroft’s eyes fell closed, tense. Greg didn’t say a word for a few moments. And finally… “Okay,” he said. “Okay. You got a first aid kit?”

“En-suite under the sink.”

The bed moved again as Greg got up and wandered into the en-suite bathroom. Mycroft rubbed his thighs. It was for the best, he thought. If he wanted to be back at work in three days then he couldn’t have the cuts getting infected.

Greg didn’t say anything when he re-entered the room and Mycroft couldn’t bring himself to look at him either. Greg sat behind him and reached out to touch Mycroft’s right shoulder. Mycroft flinched. “It’s okay,” Greg said gently. He began to rub the tight muscle with his fingertips. Mycroft let his head fall forward, his touch soothing even if it wasn’t doing anything to counter the pain. “It’s okay, it’s only me.”

Mycroft kept his eyes fixed on the floor as Greg took the first dressing off. Greg went still. Mycroft waited. And waited.

“Mycroft. I don’t know if I can do this,” Greg finally said. “Can I get Anthea?”

“No. No, she doesn’t know.”

“Okay. Okay, it’s alright.”

Mycroft frowned. He shouldn’t have asked this of him. “I’m sorry.”

“No, shh, it’s okay. I can do this. I just. Well, I thought the bruises were bad. If this stings, I am so sorry.”

“I think you can see I’ve encountered worse,” Mycroft said, trying to force a wry smile. Greg was silent behind him. “Ah. Too soon to joke?”

“A bit, yeah.”

Greg pressed a cotton wool bud to the cut and Mycroft tensed, the cream cold against his raw skin.

“I’m sorry,” Greg said. He wrapped one hand around Mycroft’s body, and his hand found Mycroft’s. Their fingers entwined, almost naturally, almost on instinct. Mycroft stared down at their joined hands. Greg’s nails were trim, his forearms lightly tanned. Greg’s hand was a comfort, and Mycroft squeezed it when it hurt, and rubbed his thumb against Greg’s, just because he could, just this final time.

“How did you keep this from Anthea?” Greg asked.

“I doubt I did successfully. But she hasn’t said anything.”

Greg covered the cut and then turned to the second dressing. “You’ve got someone to talk to, yeah?” Greg asked. “About this.”

Talk to? Mycroft wondered. Who on earth was he supposed to talk to?

“’Cause you can talk to me,” Greg continued. “If you need to. If you find it hard to deal with anytime. Just. Just call me. Anytime.”

Greg’s hand snaked around his waist again, and Mycroft took his hand. He pressed the cold cream to the cut and Mycroft winced and squeezed his eyes shut and eventually he couldn’t help but hiss in pain, however gentle Greg was being.

“I’m so sorry,” Greg said, his voice laced with layers of subtle emotion.

“I don’t know what- ah.” Mycroft tensed and tightened the grip of his other hand on the covers. “I don’t know what I’d have done if you hadn’t arrived.”

Greg squeezed his fingers. “Anthea would have done this for you.”

“It’s hard enough to stop Anthea worrying about me at times without her seeing this.”

“It’s because she cares about you,” Greg said.

Mycroft almost laughed. Everybody kept caring. Didn’t they understand how much it hurt to care? How much it would always inevitably hurt? And didn’t they realise Mycroft was trying to prevent just this situation. He didn’t want them to care about him. He didn’t want to have to protect them from himself, from his world.

And more than anything, he wished he didn’t care about them back. God, he was furious at Anthea and deep down, he already knew he wouldn’t fire her.

Greg dressed the second cut.

“One more to go,” he said, peeling the third and final dressing off and Mycroft heard Greg’s sharp intake of breath.

There was a long silence. From behind him, Mycroft could almost feel Greg’s eyes on him.

“Greg?” Mycroft said quietly.

“Yeah?”

“I am so sorry I made you see this.”

“No, don’t. It’s alright.”

A moment later, Greg’s forehead dropped to Mycroft’s shoulder as he shifted off to the side. They entwined their fingers. Mycroft swallowed. Weak, he was so weak. Just like everyone else, needing this, needing to be touched. He wasn’t just allowing it, he was inviting it in.

He was lucky to be alive. The thought hit him in an instant. If he’d died, Greg would never have done this. Would he have been sad? Would he have mourned? Would he have shed a tear? Mycroft had no idea. He knew he’d been afraid. He knew in some ways, ways Greg would never know, that he’d saved Mycroft’s life, just because Mycroft knew in his heart he had to get home to him.

Not because they had a home together, because they didn’t and Mycroft knew they never would. But because he’d make do with this. His companionship, when he could have it. If he’d died, he’d never again have felt Greg’s hand in his.

“I was so very lucky,” Mycroft murmured. “I thought no one knew where I was. Drugged in the middle of the night, and I was unprepared.” Greg squeezed Mycroft’s hand. “I’ve dealt with the punching and kicking before. It’s the whipping which is the worst. The sound, the noise, the waiting for the pain. I haven’t slept since. You’ve had Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, Greg, you know how it is.”

“What? I haven’t.”

“Undiagnosed, then. The nightmares, Greg. You’ve had it. More than once. Perhaps you still do, I’m not in a position to know how often the nightmares strike you.”

“I don’t… I had them after the Thames, sure. But I don’t have them all the time. It’s not Post Traumatic Stress. I’ve always had nightmares. Since I was a kid.”

“All children have nightmares, Greg. The fact you have had them so regularly as an adult is a possible symptom of PTSD. I’m surprised the force hasn’t told you to get treatment.”

“I never talked about it, Mycroft. It’s just you. You and Caroline and Jane. You’re the only people who know about them.”

Mycroft squeezed his fingers. “And you are the only person who has seen the scars on my back. Not even Anthea knows.” Mycroft closed his eyes. “No more leg-work,” he finally said. “This is it. I’m finished with it. I am more than capable of working from London and there are far younger agents who could do almost as well.”

Greg kissed Mycroft’s shoulder. “I think that’s good,” Greg said. “I’m bloody glad, actually. I just mean,” he started quickly. “I just mean, you’re too good at your job for this country to lose.”

“I understand,” Mycroft said, and he thought back to Anthea’s words and he thought that he really did.

“Let me disinfect this cut, yeah?”

Mycroft reluctantly let go of his hand. Greg cleaned the cut, his other hand resting on Mycroft’s shoulder, solid and comforting. He covered the cut. “Alright,” Greg said. “It’s done.” Greg got up and cleared everything away, carrying the first aid kit back to the bathroom.

Mycroft pulled the covers back. He carefully lay down, biting his lip hard. He finally settled on his side, finding a little comfort in the recovery position.

Greg wandered back in and closed the curtains. “Greg?” Mycroft called out, watching him.

“Yeah?”

Weak. So weak. “Can you please stay for a moment?”

“Of course.” Greg sat down on the side of the bed beside him. Mycroft closed his eyes. Greg put his hand on top of Mycroft’s and left it there.

“Greg,” Mycroft murmured tiredly. Oh, I should tell you, he thought. It won’t change anything but you should know… you should know…

“Shh. Sleep.” Greg touched Mycroft’s hair. Mycroft felt himself relax. Soft lips touched his forehead. “Sleep,” Greg whispered.

Mycroft kept his eyes closed. His bedroom door closed, quietly. Mycroft hesitated. I love you, he almost called out. Greg, he almost said. Just do it, you stupid idiot. He opened his mouth and he heard the front door shut. He dropped his head back onto the pillow.

Half of him was relieved. The other half longed for his touch.

The sound of a whip rang in his ears until he was finally able to sleep.


	41. Invisible Trauma

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for referenced PTSD.

**April 2008.**

**Location: Crusader House, Pall Mall, London.**

He set himself up in his office, but he knew he wouldn’t be able to sit there for long. Typing with one hand was torturous and his muscles and back ached with every movement he made. He jolted, just a little, when he heard the sound of the vacuum cleaner. He knew it was Mrs Lunden tidying his living room. But it made no difference. The noise still made him flinch. He swallowed and sat back in his chair, drinking his water.

Two days had passed since he’d got back to his home, but he was just as on edge as he had been since he first woke up in his own bed. He hadn’t even contemplated leaving the building yet. He wanted to be back at work the next morning, and he would go, pain or no pain. But a fear lingered somewhere, deep inside of him. If he trusted the wrong person, if his drivers Max or Malcolm weren’t all they said they were…

He sighed and rubbed his face.

Sherlock was still in Florida, and Frank Hudson hadn’t been executed. Yet. Sherlock was supposed to be working with his lawyer to find new evidence but Mycroft wasn’t wholly convinced that was going to plan. Time would tell though, he supposed, and Sherlock had a few more days to go.

A news report had run in the papers that morning. A British woman, by the name of Olivia Deneuve, had been found dead in Saudi Arabia, the victim of a suspected robbery. Anthea and Arnou were still living in a hotel, and Mycroft knew it was the safest place for them.

But aside from terse phone calls with Anthea, Mycroft hadn’t found much to say to her yet. He wanted to say a lot. He wanted to shout at her and blame her, but deep down, he knew it had been inevitable. Taking her on had been a risk from the start, but he didn’t regret it. Despite a few early hiccoughs, there couldn’t have been a better choice than her for that job.

She was highly capable, and she understood Mycroft and his work. Firing her wouldn’t solve anything. He would end up with someone he didn’t know and didn’t trust who wouldn’t be able to amuse him or challenge him in the ways Anthea did.

Everyone was liable to make mistakes, and Mycroft included himself in that.

* * *

He arrived at the Coeur de Lion Offices before anyone else did. His wrist was still causing him some trouble, so he planned to spend much of the day doing some reading of the latest Government reports. Anthea joined him at 8am, and took the seat opposite his.

She watched him with uncertain eyes as she told him what meetings he had for the coming week and what reports she had already left for him on his desk.

“It’s alright,” Mycroft said after a few minutes. “Am I furious about the mistake? Yes. Will I hold it against you forever? No. You remain one of very few people I trust, and I will find it within myself to move on from this. So take that look off your face, would you?”

“Thank you, sir,” she said softly, though she still looked on edge. “I… Are you okay?”

“I’m healing. The human body is quite remarkable.” The mind not so much, he thought. The cuts were healing, the bruises fading, but the memories were relentless. He couldn’t bear even the smell of whisky. The sound of a helicopter gave him reason to pause. The daylight hours had been fine, mostly, but it took him a long time to work up the courage to go to bed.

He stayed on the settee until he was almost falling asleep, and even then he was reluctant to close his eyes. He’d found a few reminders - he was safe, protected, and secure - to repeat in his mind like a mantra, over and over until he was able to turn the light out and trust that he would wake up in the same bed.

“How is Sherlock getting on?” he asked.

“I haven’t heard from him today. Perhaps no news is good news.”

“Perhaps,” Mycroft said, a little sceptically. “But I haven’t trusted Sherlock to do any work for me in a long time, and I don’t know if I trust him as far as I could throw him.” He sighed. “I’ve been thinking a lot these past few days. I think we should hire someone to act in some sort of PR role.”

“PR?” Anthea frowned. “Aren’t we supposed to be… secret?”

“Yes, of course. But on occasion, there are some Government papers and stories worth leaking. The Olivia Deneuve story is a prime example of that. We needed a false story leaked, and I imagine it came from Hugh Seagroves staff?” Anthea nodded. “I trust Hugh, for the most part, but his favours don’t come cheaply," Mycroft said. "At the next mini crisis, I expect he’ll be knocking our door down again. There may be someone in this office already who would like to be more involved in Government affairs. Or we might see it that we need to hire someone new. I’m open to all options, really. Perhaps we could have someone permanently based at Whitehall.”

“I will ask around the office, sir.”

“Do. Can you outline what everyone is working on at present?”

“Madhubala Selling is continuing to work on the surveillance system. Stewart Trease is currently out in Iraq working with Hugh Seagroves’ team to outline better ways of accumulating intelligence. Erin Bareford is monitoring the RL6 enquiry.”

“Ah yes. What is happening with that?”

“They’re still obtaining more documents at the moment and conducting interviews. A new chief executive has taken over the running of RL6 in the meantime, but they are expected to be sued over the faulty Twister. The one that crashed in Afghanistan.”

Mycroft nodded. The memory of that continued to pain him. “Tell Erin to find a list of those interviewed so far. What is Lucas doing?”

“Continuing to monitor everything coming out of MI5 to see if there is anything we should be doing to help them.”

“Very good. Have Cliff Crenshaw and Edward Palfrey been given anything to do since Luck died?”

His field workers, Cliff and Edward, had been vital in following Luck on his various trips around the world, and Mycroft knew they had also travelled to Portugal after a bomb blast there. But since then, he’d lost track of their movements somewhat.

“They’re carrying out surveillance operations in this office at present,” Anthea said.

“Then we should give them something better to do. There must be someone in the world worth tracking. Find me the list of MI6’s current surveillance list and I’ll find them something worthy of their talents.”

“Yes, sir.”

Mycroft nodded. “We should be working a little more closely with the Ministry Of Defence, particularly after the Twister debacle… Will you have a look into who we may be able to hire? We have plenty of space. We might as well start filling this office out a little more.”

“Of course.”

“That’ll be all for now, thank you, Anthea.”

She managed a half smile and left him to his reading.

* * *

**May, 2008.**

**Location: Crusader House, Pall Mall, London.**

The phone call came in the middle of the night. “They’ve just executed Frank Hudson,” the Met’s Commander said. “Apparently the evidence was even more convincing, not less.”

Mycroft blinked. “More convincing?” he asked.

“Yes, they found even more evidence.”

Sherlock. It had to be Sherlock. “Thank you, Commander,” Mycroft muttered before hanging up the phone. He groaned and dialled his brother’s number. Sherlock didn’t answer, of course. He was probably sat in some diner laughing at Mycroft while he regaled his tale to anyone who would listen. He did so love to share his achievements with the world…

“You were aware you were supposed to save his life not have him executed?” Mycroft reminded him when he finally got through on the phone.

“Too much evidence,” Sherlock said.

“And who, precisely, found that evidence?”

“Well, me.” Sherlock sounded amused. “The policemen here are as incompetent as in London, would you believe?”

“Sherlock, you are an embarrassment.”

“I’m not the embarrassment, you’re just embarrassed. And I’m delighted to have played a hand in it.”

Mycroft rolled his eyes. “I’m sure you are. I expect you will be returning to London? I’m sure you enjoyed the five star hotel you chose to stay in at my expense.”

“I did.”

“Who managed to drink all the alcohol in your room? The bill was… monstrous.”

“I just handed it out on the streets.”

Mycroft almost laughed. Wasn’t that just Sherlock, he thought despairingly. Handing out expensive hotel alcohol just to spite him. “Well, I’m not paying for your trip anymore. So either you come home, or you can fund your own expenses.”

“Two ‘plane tickets.”

Mycroft frowned. “I’m sorry?”

“I need two ‘plane tickets. I’m bringing Frank Hudson’s wife home.”

“You’re doing what?”

“Her name is Martha Hudson. She’s a British citizen. And I’m bringing her back to London.”

“Why, precisely, are you doing that?”

“I’ll charge the ticket to you,” Sherlock said.

“Sherlock!” Mycroft snapped. “I sent you there to do a job for me, and you made a pig’s ear of it. I am not funding any more of your activities.”

“Does that mean you’ll finally leave me alone?”

“Once upon a time, I thought you’d make an excellent member of the secret service. How wrong was I?"

“As if I’d work with you," Sherlock retorted.

“The feeling is entirely mutual,” Mycroft muttered. “Are you capable of doing anything right?”

“Are you?” Sherlock snapped back before he hung up.

Sherlock didn’t return any of his calls over the next week. Mycroft knew he was back in the country, but he didn’t make any effort to see him.

Some nights, he dreamt of Greg. He dreamt they were at one of Hugh Seagrove’s parties together. The house was full with guests, so many that it was impossible to move. He dreamt that Greg walked to the door, and Mycroft followed, reaching out for his proffered hand. But Greg was always five steps ahead of him, and Mycroft lost him among the throng. When he found him again, Greg was on his knees, his body covered in whip marks. He was barely conscious. And when Greg’s eyes met his, Mycroft saw hatred in them.

Some nights, while he sat on his settee, he heard a noise from outside. It would startle him from his thoughts and he could only watch as his hand shook in front of him.

He began to refuse meetings with people in certain offices. He would not see Nadia Swift anywhere but at the Coeur de Lion Offices. Her chair, like Mycroft’s, faced the door. But it meant that when he sat opposite her, he was unable to see anyone as they came in. A knock on the door was enough to cause him to flinch. And if anyone came unexpectedly behind him, Mycroft felt his heart begin to race.

He’d experienced this before. It had taken some six years until most of those symptoms had disappeared following the incident in Iran. He had never seen anyone about it - he had known what it was. He had taught himself some breathing exercises, and eventually he got used to the noises and people approaching him from over his shoulders.

He never looked at his back in the mirror, and he never spoke to anyone about it.

Greg had offered to talk to him about it though, when he had helped Mycroft with his back. And Mycroft knew Greg would understand better than anyone.

Despite that, Mycroft hardly knew what led him to Greg’s door at New Scotland Yard that afternoon.

But he’d woken up in a state. Getting out of bed had been difficult, and his hands shook as he poured his coffee. He’d spilt some of it down his trousers and he had been forced to change. He couldn’t bring himself to go to the office. The thought of that room made his chest inexplicably tighten. Too confined, too dark, with no natural light. That had been a choice once, now it made him think of small boxes and darkness and not being able to escape.

Even his flat felt too small that morning. Malcolm drove him to New Scotland Yard. He walked through to the Serious Crime Division, and just the sight of Greg’s office began to settle his fears. Greg was safe, Mycroft was safe. He knocked on the door, and opened it as Greg called him in.

Greg was surrounded by paperwork, and half of it was in piles on the floor. There was a wedding invitation on the floor, not filled in, but it told Mycroft everything he needed to know about the swift progression of Greg’s relationship with Jane Starnes. Mycroft stepped over some of the papers, and Greg smiled up at him from the desk. Mycroft’s chest tightened. He shouldn’t have come. “Alright?” Greg asked cheerfully.

The chair had been moved to the corner of the desk, probably to clear some floor space, and it meant Mycroft could still see the door as he took a seat. Greg’s office had glass walls, and Mycroft thought that for someone with claustrophobia as Greg also suffered with, that was probably a quite wonderful installation. “Quite well, thank you,” he said. Better now, really, he thought. For seeing him, for being in the same room.

Greg sat down in his own chair. “What’s up?”

“Sherlock is driving me to distraction.”

Greg grinned. “Sounds familiar. You want to go and grab some coffee and let off some steam?”

“I have no need to let off any steam,” Mycroft said.

Greg laughed. “No, but I do, and I could bloody well use one. Come on. Just half an hour, you’re here anyway. Unless you were here for something else?”

Mycroft shook his head. “I had a meeting with your Commander, but he cancelled at the last minute,” he lied.

Greg grinned and grabbed his sunglasses. “Let’s find a cafe, yeah? Be good to have a catch-up.”

“Very well,” Mycroft said.

Greg laughed. “Could be more enthusiastic about it.”

“I am,” Mycroft replied, but he couldn’t help the knot of anxiety in his chest. He hadn’t meant to pay Greg a social call. He had intended to sit and discuss Sherlock with him, or work out what cases Greg was working on. But sitting with him and drinking coffee like old times… Especially now he was going to get married again…

But Mycroft stood up and walked through the building and led Greg to his car. He opened the door for him and Greg got in. “I was only going to take you down the road,” Greg said.

“There’s a tea room around the corner,” Mycroft replied as he sat down beside him.

Greg laughed. “We’re going in the car for a place around the corner? You’re really doing your bit for the environment.” Mycroft raised his eyebrows. “Okay fine, I’m not the most environmentally-friendly either,” Greg admitted. “Someone mentioned the idea of a paperless office once, and they were never heard from again. Honestly, if I had to do half the stuff I do on paper on the computer, I think it would be chucked out of the window after an hour.”

“I suppose violence against technology is preferable to violence against the person,” Mycroft said.

Greg laughed. “Oh God, don’t tell me the Government is going to start legislating on technology-violence. Like computer mice have feelings too.” Mycroft’s raised his brows again. In truth, he was a little amused, but he still felt ill-at-ease. “Come on, Mycroft, lighten up a bit. I haven’t seen you laugh in ages.” Greg opened the door and got out of the car. “Work not good?” he asked.

“Work is fine. Constantly busy.”

“Still expanding your job title?”

“In a manner of speaking.”

The tea rooms were quiet, and Mycroft led Greg to the corner where he would be able to see everyone as they came in. The waitress came over to them, and Mycroft ordered a pot of tea. Greg chose a coffee and a toasted teacake.

“So how did Sherlock’s trip to sunny America go?” Greg asked, putting his sunglasses on the top of his head.

Mycroft almost smiled. “Ghastly," he said.

“What happened?”

“He ensured the death of the man he was supposed to have saved.”

Greg stared at him. “Wow. That really didn’t go to plan.”

“Quite.”

“Cause any problems?”

Mycroft frowned. “Frank Hudson was going to provide information on international drug smuggling in return for his life. We, and the Americans, believed it would aid in the capture of several cartels and gangs operating on both sides of the Atlantic.”

“And they executed him?”

“The evidence Sherlock provided on a double murder was too conclusive not to.”

Greg rolled his eyes. “I don’t even know what to suggest with him anymore. You know he’s become even more picky about my cases? Apparently people are going to him for cases now, so he’s only going to come to me when he’s either so bored he’s about to dose himself on drugs or when I’ve got one acceptably interesting.”

“I can only apologise for suggesting he get his own clients.”

“It’s not your fault. I’d rather he was busy than constantly pissing off my team.”

Mycroft thanked the waitress as she brought them their food and drinks, and Mycroft poured himself some tea.

“Anymore on the MORnetwork?” Greg asked.

“No. We believe it’s operating under a different name. Or no name at all.”

“You’ll figure it out,” Greg said with a confidence Mycroft did not feel.

“And how is your work?” he asked. “I read about the Kensington Ripper.”

Greg rolled his eyes. “I’m so angry the papers were calling it that I can’t even tell you. But yeah, we sorted it. Another case Sherlock decided he was too important to get involved with.”

“Sherlock is no longer talking to me after I rather lambasted him for the American case.”

Greg grinned. “He’s willing to dish it out but he’s not willing to take it.”

“Yes, life continues very much as normal as far as my brother is concerned.”  

“He’s grown up a bit since I first met him. Not a lot. But a bit.”

“Has he?” Mycroft asked, pulling a face.

Greg laughed. “Come on, Mycroft, have a bit of faith in him. When I first met him, he was quite happy to shove a needle in his arm while I was in the room. I don’t think he’d do that now.”

“At least he allows you a key.”

“Bloody lucky he does since it probably saved his life.”

Mycroft paused, thinking back to that day. January 6, 2007. More memorable, perhaps, because that was the day Mycroft ended his relationship with Greg. Just over a year ago. But Sherlock had almost died, and if it hadn’t been for Greg… “I never properly thanked you for attending to him that day.”

Greg shook his head. “You don’t need to. If he text me now to say he was in trouble I’d go to him. He knows it too.”

“When are you getting married?”

Greg frowned. “Not set a date yet. I’m leaving it all up to her. I think it’ll be small, she’s not a big fan of weddings.”

“Many congratulations,” Mycroft said. And oh, how it pained him to say it. He might have known when Greg closed the door to his flat that it would be so he could return to Jane Starnes. Perhaps there had still been a chance, however slight, that they would end up together some time down the road. But not anymore.

“Cheers. Must be crazy to do it again.”

“Not at all.”

A silence fell between them and Mycroft sipped his tea, though it was lukewarm at best. What now was there to say? He glanced at Greg, who was staring into his mug, biting his lip. He looked as though he was about to say something. Mycroft braced himself for it.

“You know, you said to me once that I didn’t have many friends,” Greg finally said. “Not outside work anyway, and you were right. And for a long time, you were the best friend I had.” Mycroft frowned at him. Was this a fond farewell? That now Greg was getting married, they shouldn’t see each other anymore? Mycroft thought that may actually be for the best, but Greg continued speaking. “I don’t know if you can call us colleagues or what, but if we can still be mates then I’d like that.”

Mycroft paused. “Do you believe I go to lunch with just anyone?” he finally asked.

Greg smiled. “I don’t, no. Make me a deal, Mycroft? Assuming you’re in the country, if you need to take any of my files, you’ll come to me yourself. Not send Anthea or a minion.”

“I will do my very best.”

Greg nodded. “All I ask.”

Mycroft looked down at his pocket watch. “I’m terribly sorry, I have another meeting,” he lied. He had to get away. Greg was getting married and Mycroft wasn’t wholly sure he could stand to be in the same room with him at the minute.

“Don’t worry. Talk soon, yeah?”

“Of course.”

Mycroft stood up and collected his umbrella. He paid for their lunch on the way out, and he slid into the car.

He had wanted Greg to take his hand again, to tell him he’d be okay. He felt very much alone. Greg offered a friendship he didn’t have with anyone else, and in time he thought he would accept it. For now though, he went back to Crusader House and poured himself a drink and sat on the balcony, pondering how to finally move on.

* * *

** June 2008. **

**Location: Coeur de Lion Offices, Mayfair, London.**

The invitation was sent to his work address. _Greg Lestrade and Jane Starnes are pleased to invite you to their wedding and reception._

Mycroft stared at the crisp white paper, with its calligraphic handwriting and the smiley face at the bottom he could only imagine was Jane’s doing. He handed it to Anthea. “I don’t care what it is, where it is or who it’s with, but get me out of the country on this date,” he told her. “I’ll even spend the day with Andrew Regis if that’s what it takes.”

“I am so sorry,” she said as she read it. “That was fast.”

“Don’t be sorry,” Mycroft told her. “I’m not. Just get me out of the country.”

Anthea nodded. “Of course I will,” she replied. “I’ll find you something to do. Is that all?”

Mycroft turned to her and frowned. Things were still tense between them. They hadn’t talked about what had happened, not in the two months since Saudi Arabia. She looked guilty every time she looked at him. But Mycroft nodded. “That’ll be all,” he said.

Mycroft sent his apologies to Greg that he could not attend along with a card of congratulations. He enclosed a cheque for £50 so they could buy themselves something.

It was better this way. If Greg was married then he would be entirely out of Mycroft’s reach. The temptation would be gone. Perhaps they could be friends, and that would be enough for him now. He would bury the feelings he had for Greg, and with time he hoped they would fade.

* * *

There were 18 people, some from MI5, some from MI6 and others from the Government, sitting in the Downing Street room, all pouring over new terrorism legislation.

It would extend the period of time the police could hold terror suspects by another two weeks. Mycroft had stepped in for Hugh Seagroves at the last minute, when Hugh fell ill. But he could tell the Prime Minister was not overly pleased about the last-minute replacement.

Hugh Seagroves had been in favour of the plans, and was prepared to give them his full backing. Mycroft wasn’t so sure.

“We have to weigh up people’s civil liberties,” he said. “And there is no such thing as complete security. Our country has a long history of freedom, and this would undermine it.”

“If the police need more time, the police need more time,” Nadia Swift of MI5 said. “I’ve seen terror suspects walk free and just days later, we’re picking them back up again. Or worse, they actually succeed.”

“Nobody says the investigation has to stall,” Mycroft pointed out. “But you can’t keep people locked in cells for 40 days. It’s inhuman.”

“So is torture. But the British Government has worked with the CIA to transport suspects who we knew would be tortured.”

“That has nothing to do with this.”

“So you condone it?” she asked.

“The use of torture? No.”

“Are you actively against it?”

Mycroft shook his head. “I don’t walk around Parliament with a placard protesting the use of torture, no.”

“You know that wasn’t what I meant.”

“I don’t particularly know what you mean, Nadia, actually. But this extension is too long. The police aren’t calling for it. They need a certain amount of evidence to arrest someone in the first place, and if they don’t have enough evidence to hold them after the 28-day limit then either the person is innocent or we’re not doing our jobs correctly. Either way, it is abhorrent to keep someone locked up for longer than the 28-day limit. And frankly, I don’t see how this gets past the House Of Lords.”

The Prime Minister frowned at him. “I didn’t ask you here to argue the - in fact, I didn’t ask you here at all. But the finer points of this bill are irrelevant now. It’s going before the Commons in three weeks time. All I wanted was your expertise on very specific points. Now if you’ll look at-”

“-All due respect, Mr Prime Minister, no one cares about the finer points of this bill," Mycroft retorted. "Is it workable? Probably. I imagine you want us to turn our attention to points 11 and 16. In my view, are they workable? Yes. And you can tell your party that too if you like. But you’d be doing far better by this country if you dropped the bill entirely.”

“It’s out of the question.”

“Evidently,” Mycroft muttered. He frowned and stood up. “Very well. You’re quite right that you asked Hugh Seagroves here, and not me. You and I will disagree on every point and I see no point in me remaining in this meeting. May I be excused?”

“You may.”

Mycroft nodded his head. “Thank you, Mr Prime Minister.” He kept his cool as he left the room. Two years, he thought. Two years and they’d be rid of him, he hoped. The man hated him, that was clear and didn’t trust him at all. He was being shut out of Government affairs, one door at a time. The Defence Secretary was avoiding him despite the fact he had all the money he needed for his new roads in his constituency thanks to Mycroft.

Was it personal? he wondered, as he sat down at his desk. Did he despise the idea of the 42-day limit because he imagined sitting in a cell for 42 days, in that enclosed space? It was very likely. He sighed. He would need to find some way to find the Prime Minister’s favour again, he supposed. He would have to do something very useful to manage that.

* * *

**July 2008.**

**Location: New Delhi, India.**

Mycroft glanced down at his pocket watch. The trade agreement meeting had been going on for three hours now. And it was almost noon in the UK. Mycroft pressed his lips together. He wished he hadn’t realised that.

At noon, Jane Starnes would be walking down in the aisle in front of her family and what there was of Greg’s. They would say their vows, and they would be married by around 12.20pm. Mycroft knew the rest of the afternoon involved a barbecue and probably copious amounts of champagne. Greg would wear a suit and tie and everyone would comment on how beautiful the bride looked.

It would be the start of their new lives together. Greg, Jane and the dog.

Mycroft glanced up as one of the young assistants walked back into the room. He was a teenager, skinny, incredibly polite. Mycroft had seen him a lot the past few days. He was the employee of one of India’s top businessmen. By rights, the teenager should have received enough money to buy a decent suit. But it was evident the sleeves had been hand-stitched after they had ripped. His watch was scratched, and was one link too big, as though it had been handed down to him by a man with a larger wrist.

Mycroft made his excuses after a few minutes, and said he needed to use the bathroom. He found the teenager in the gully kitchen, preparing more drinks.

“Do you speak English?” Mycroft asked him in Hindi.

“No, sir,” the boy said as he turned to him, bowing a little. “How can I serve you, sir?”

Mycroft smiled a little and closed the door. “You can drive, can’t you?” Mycroft said, in the boy’s language. “You drive your boss around.”

The teen nodded. “And do his dry-cleaning and collect his post and I carry the tea. Sir.”

“Your employer isn’t a good man,” Mycroft murmured. “Was it him who hit your face or someone else?”

The boy’s eyes widened. “Sir, no, my boss is a good man. A very good man.”

Mycroft held his hand up. “I’m not going to talk to him about you. Do you have a family here?”

“No, sir. I’m alone.”

“Did you start on the streets?”

The teen nodded. “Yes, sir. Like so many others.”

“And yet you found employment with one of the richest men in New Delhi. You’ve done well for yourself.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Mycroft paused for a moment and nodded to him. He walked out of the kitchen and went back to the meeting. He disliked the teenager’s boss more than anyone he’d met in recent months. He was greedy and careless. And he despised how the man treated people. Over the next few days, he watched the teenager. He discovered he was called Kamik Toor, and was just 19-years-old. Mycroft could see he had an excellent memory. At first he thought it was just a memory for people’s drink orders. But he soon realised he could repeat exactly what someone said an hour after the fact.

Mycroft began to test him in meetings. He would ask him if he could recall precise figures that had been referenced hours earlier. The boy was sharp, quick and yes, he passed every test. And so Mycroft put in a couple of calls with Government officials. And on the last day of his trip, he took the teenager to one side.

“How would you like to live in England?” he asked.

The boy stared at him. “I’m sorry, sir?”

“Well, you can navigate the roads in India far better than any other driver I’ve seen here. You are clearly intelligent, and I’ve observed you over the past few days. You have an incredibly good memory.”

The boy smiled. “Yes, sir,” he said, clearly delighted that it was noted.

“I could use you,” Mycroft said. “As a driver, first and foremost. If you would accompany me to England. I can get you citizenship and pay for a good home for you. You would have English lessons and you would be in my employment.”

“Really, sir?” he asked, his eyes wide.

“Yes, Kamik. I’m afraid you won’t have a long to make a decision.”

“Yes, sir. I’ll come, sir.”

Mycroft smiled a little. “Good,” he said. “Well, you can go home and collect your things first.”

“No things, sir,” he said. “I can come now, sir.”

Mycroft paused for a moment. He glanced over to where Anthea was watching him with a bemused expression. “Very well,” he said. He turned to Anthea. “We need another seat on the aeroplane,” he told her.

“What are you doing?” she whispered to him as they walked out of the building to the car.

“I need a new driver,” he replied.

“You’ve needed a new driver ever since you promoted Jim. Why him?”

“It’s where I find my employees, Anthea. When they’re at their very, very worst. When they think their luck has run out. And then I give them a job. And I know I can trust them to be loyal.”

She nodded. “I understand.”

“Do you?” he asked.

“You’re apologising,” she replied. “In a very convoluted way.”

He managed a smile. “I’ve been too hard on you," he admitted.

“You’ve been hard on yourself.”

He nodded. “Yes,” he murmured. He held the car door open for her. She smiled at him and got in. From down the road, a car's horn went off. Mycroft flinched, his chest tightening. "Stop it," he muttered to himself. He got into the car with Anthea and Kamik and watched out of the window as the city streamed past. 


	42. Family History

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've got my mojo back with extra Mo and Jo. And I'm also going to Sherlocked this weekend, so I won't be able to update over the weekend, so I'm getting it all in now :) Enjoy!

**August 2008.**

**Location: SIS Building, Vauxhall Cross, London.**

Mycroft yawned as he collected his briefcase. He had been working with Hugh Seagroves all night and into the early hours of the morning, after their teams had discovered a terrorist plot. A British bomber had just been arrested in France on suspicion of putting a bomb on an aeroplane. Hugh called it a successful night’s work.

Mycroft nodded tiredly. “Yes, I suppose we could call this a success,” he said. “Except now we’ve caught the bomber, the organisation he is working for will know we have been able to access their communications.”

Hugh frowned. “He might not be working for an organisation.”

“There’s always an organisation somewhere. Particularly where there is communication. No doubt it will become more clear over the next few days.”

“What else can we do though?” Hugh asked. “Just let the bomber get away with it?”

Mycroft nodded. “I know,” he said. “It’s the Coventry Conundrum.”

Hugh laughed. “What conundrum?” he asked.

Mycroft sighed. “It was widely believed that during the Second World War, Winston Churchill received information that there was to be a German attack on Coventry. The story goes that Coventry and its people were sacrificed, because to protect the city would have alerted Hitler to the fact the British had cracked the top-secret Enigma codes.”

“Did that really happen?”

Mycroft shook his head. “No. They knew an attack was imminent, but they had no idea where it would be. They thought it was probably London. Nonetheless, real or not, the conundrum remains. How do you protect people while not alerting the terrorists that you have cracked their codes, or have their communications? It’s a question for another day, I’m afraid.”

Hugh smiled at him. “Good work today though,” he said.

Mycroft nodded. “Yes. Another plot is foiled. And France’s security services are working with us far better than they were. I’ll take the positives from that too.”

He shook Hugh’s hand and wandered out of the office, still mulling the problem over as he got into the car.

“Good morning, Kamik,” he said in English as he slid in. “Crusader House, please.”

“Yes, sir,” Kamik replied in English. Mycroft smiled. He had made a lot of progress in just a few weeks. Mycroft knew he was working hard, and had been spending some time with Elwira Mündel who worked as a translator in Mycroft’s office. But even so, his progress has been extraordinary.

He had stayed in Mycroft’s guest bedroom for the first few days while he settled in, but Mycroft quickly found him a flat. He paid the first instalments of his rent, so Kamik could settle as quickly as possible.

“Very good,” Mycroft told him. “I’m very impressed.”

“Sir?”

“I’m impressed,” Mycroft told him Hindi. “With your progress.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Mycroft half smiled as he watched out of the window. The Coventry Conundrum, he thought.

And what if they could stop a plot without alerting the terrorists? How to prevent the loss of people’s lives without anyone ever finding out that it was even done. Now that was a challenge worth pondering.

* * *

**September 2008.**

**Location: Crystal Palace Park, Crystal Palace, London.**

Mycroft leaned against the fence, overlooking the pond. He smiled in amusement as he stared at the [dinosaur sculptures](http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/5/57/Crystal_Palace_Dinosaurs_overview.jpg).

He had travelled to the park to clear his mind. It had been a good number of years since he had last visited it. The dinosaurs had been created in the 1850s and they were believed to be the first sculptures of their kind in the world. They were wholly inaccurate by modern standards, but they were amusing.

He took a long breath in, listening to the birds in the trees. He frowned as his phone rang and he took it out of his pocket. He paused when he saw Greg’s name on his screen and hesitated before answering. “Mycroft Holmes,” he said.

There was a short pause. “Hi,” Greg replied. “I want to ask a favour.”

“Of course.”

There was another pause. Mycroft stood up straight, turning away from the dinosaurs. “You said once you could look my birth parents up for me,” Greg said. “Will you… will you see what you can do?”

His birth parents? Mycroft tilted his head. “Are you sure?” he asked.

“Yeah. Yeah, I’m sure.”

“Very well.”

“I’ll email you everything I know about the home and stuff to help you out.”

“Are you certain you want me to do this?” Mycroft asked.

“Not really. But do it. Please.”

“Of course. I’ll let you know what I find out as soon as I have some information.”

“Mycroft?”

He frowned. “Yes?”

“Just you, yeah? Please don’t get anyone else involved.”

“I promise,” Mycroft said.

“Thank you.”

“I will be in contact soon.” He hung up and put his phone back in his pocket. He wondered what had brought that on. Greg’s marriage? Wanting to find a sense of belonging?

He went home and checked his emails. Greg had sent him the name of his former children’s home.

He sent Greg a letter in the post, which would grant Mycroft permission to access the files. It was returned a few days later, signed by Greg, and Mycroft took it to the local council. He handed over the paperwork and was told it would take a few weeks until they could provide him with any details. And even then, they would need to write to Greg themselves to ensure he had given Mycroft his permission to look into the case.

But two weeks later, Mycroft had a pile of photocopies on his desk. He took a breath as he opened the first one.

_Name: Greg._

_Age: Approx. four months, date of birth unknown._

_Place of birth: Unknown._

_Mother: Unknown._

_Father: Unknown._

There was a small black and white picture of a baby. Mycroft picked it up. Young Greg, at just four-months-old. He looked just like any other child of that age. But there was no smile. He had wide, uncertain eyes. A baby who had seen too many faces, and none of them looked like home. Mycroft put the photograph back on the desk, upside-down, finding he couldn't bring himself to look at it for long.

There was a sheet of paper with some handwritten notes on it.

_Greg was found at Epsom and St Helier University Hospital, on March 17, 1967. He had no surname. There was only a note (included in the file). It said he had been born at Epsom and St Helier University Hospital four months earlier._

Mycroft pursed his lips and turned to his computer. He must have read thousands of names until he finally tracked down a list of Gregs born in November 1966. Only one was registered in the district he was looking for, however. That gave him a reference number.

He flicked through the other files the home had on Greg, but didn’t read them. They tracked his education, his foster arrangements, his behaviour. But Mycroft knew they wouldn’t help him, and it made him uncomfortable to even consider reading them. He put everything into an envelope and into a folder.

Anthea would so be proud, he thought. He was actually putting documents in the correct order for once.

* * *

**August 1977.**

**Location: Lavenham Road, Wimbledon, London.**

_He lay on his stomach on the patterned carpet, his elbows resting on a barely-padded cushion. He had_ Archosauria: A New Look At The Old Dinosaur  _open in front of him, along with a dictionary. His glass of lemonade had been ignored, and the fizz had almost gone out. He crossed his legs over at his ankles as he turned the page. He hardly heard the sound of the television anymore, he was so focused on reading._

_He had spent the past three nights at his grandfather’s house, eating pancakes with maple syrup and ham sandwiches and home-cooked sausage rolls. He’d gone to get away from his family, mostly. Sherlock was a few months old and he kept crying. Mycroft had little to no experience of babies before Sherlock, but he wished he hadn’t been born._

_But he could escape from that here._

_It was an odd arrangement. He knew mummy’s father, his grandfather Jack, had been married to his grandmother Josephine. But by the time the Second World War had ended, Josephine was living with another man. Step-grandfather Peter. Mycroft’s grandfather had moved into another house with Gerald, whom he met during the war._

_Mycroft didn’t blame him. Women were boring and Josephine was boring. Her husband, Peter, was even worse. He liked trains. A lot. And all he talked about were trains._

_But Gerald used to be a pilot, and he had a wooden leg. He liked dinosaurs too, but Mycroft knew he already knew a lot more about palaeontology than everyone in his family combined._

_“Mycroft, would you like another drink?” his grandfather asked._

_Mycroft peered up at him, pushing his hair back off his face. “No thank you,” he said. His grandfather reached down to ruffle his hair before wandering back to the kitchen. Mycroft pulled a face and straightened his hair again. Gerald turned off the television. He leaned forward in his chair to pick up his packet of cigarettes. “You’ve got through that book quickly,” he said._

_Mycroft nodded. “It’s very good. It says lots of the theories were wrong.” He wrinkled his nose. “The words are very scientific though and the dictionary doesn’t help with all of them.”_

_Gerald smiled. “I wish I could help, but I wouldn’t know where to start.” He put his cigarette to his lips and lit it. “Your grandfather may know.”_

_Mycroft shook his head. “He wouldn’t. He doesn't like science.”_

_“Well, that is true,” Gerald said._

_Mycroft nodded and sat up, crossing his legs. He glanced down at the book and frowned. “You said you were going to tell me about the war last time I was here. But I have to go home tomorrow and you’ve still not told me anything.”_

_Gerald laughed, blowing out a puff of smoke. “Impatient children don’t get everything they want,” he said._

_“But you did promise.”_

_“Yes, I suppose I did.”_

_Mycroft nodded. “You definitely did. Grandad heard you.”_

_Gerald smiled at him. “Yes, he did indeed. But war isn’t something you can just ask about, Mycroft. It’s a very difficult subject.”_

_“Why?” he asked._

_“Because a lot of people died.”_

_Mycroft nodded. “Yes, I know. But you didn’t die. Grandad didn’t die. My other grandfather didn’t die either and he has told me all about the war. He fought in Egypt.”_

_“We’re not proud of what we did during the war, Mycroft, your grandfather and I. It was a very difficult period. It has been glorified in recent years, I think. But nothing about it was glorious.”_

_“Should I stop asking?”_

_Gerald nodded. “You should, but I suspect you won’t. And you’re right. I did promise to tell you about it.”_

_“You did,” Mycroft said. He adjusted the cushion and sat down on it. “Did you get injured?”_

_“Yes.”_

_“Is that why you haven’t got a leg?”_

_Gerald smiled. “It’s not, actually. I broke it playing football and decided they should chop it off rather than live in pain forever. But I did get injured.”_

_Mycroft nodded. His grandfather walked back in with two cups of tea and handed one to Gerald. Gerald stamped his cigarette out and Mycroft’s grandfather sat back down in his chair and opened his broadsheet newspaper._

_“We’re going to talk about the war, Jack,” Gerald said. “I think you had better start.”_

_Mycroft’s grandfather folded the newspaper back up, dropping it down beside his chair. “I see,” he said, crossing one leg over the other. He glanced down at Mycroft, his ice blue eyes piercing through him. “Well, I suppose we should start from the very beginning.” He paused, and glanced at Gerald. They shared a brief nod. “I still, to this day, remember listening to the wireless when the king gave his speech at the start of the war. I must have been 23 at the time.”_

_“No, you would have been 24,” Gerald said._

_Mycroft’s grandfather frowned. “Would I?” he asked. “Oh yes, I suppose I would have been. Very well. I was 24-years-old. And I knew from the very beginning that I would sign up. We had heard all about the Nazis, from the very start. And Hitler. We all knew about Hitler. I joined up to the RAF. I had a lot of training to do, of course. But they knew how important the aeroplanes were going to be in the war to come and they taught us very quickly.”_

_“I was already in the RAF at that time,” Gerald said. “I knew how to fly already.”_

_“Do you remember the speech?” his grandfather asked Gerald. “Churchill’s. Did you listen to it?”_

_“No. I only heard it for the first time 10 years ago.”_

_“I heard the speech live.” His grandfather took a sip of his tea. “The Battle Of Britain, he called it. I remember how, when you were waiting to fly, they would shout ‘scramble, scramble’ over the receiver. And off we would go to the aircraft. If you were hit, you had a parachute, but that was no guarantee of survival.”_

_“I crash landed in a farmer’s field,” Gerald said. “Your grandfather, bold as brass, landed his aircraft as though it was out of a textbook, just in the field next to mine. I’ll never forget the way he emerged, as though he’d just gone for a stroll. I was lying in that field, burned and bloody. I shouted for help, and your grandfather came. He wore his uniform so casually with a scarf. Believe me, Mycroft, women across the country would have swooned if they saw him at that moment.” Gerald grinned, sipping his tea._

_“Don’t be ridiculous,” Mycroft’s grandfather muttered. “It was hot in those ‘planes. I certainly wasn’t wearing a scarf.”_

_“Don’t challenge me, you were wearing a scarf, I promise you.”_

_Mycroft’s grandfather rolled his eyes. “Gerald likes to think I pranced out of the aeroplane like some knight, but I was sweating like a pig. And I wasn’t wearing a scarf.”_

_Gerald smiled across at him. “He took one look at me, and at my burned chest and said, ‘well, you look a bit battered, but it’s nothing a cup of tea won’t fix’.”_

_Mycroft laughed. “Did you really say that?” he asked his grandfather._

_“If Gerald says it’s true, then I suppose it must be, just like the ruddy scarf.”_

_“He carried me,” Gerald said. “On his back, he carried me. I was out of action for a very long time.”_

_His grandfather nodded his head once. “I flew many more times. We both saw men, men we friends with, die. They used to count us back in, I’ll never forget that. The worst was when you would go to the base, and you already knew you were one of the last in. And you would hear them call out a number, and you knew just how many hadn’t made it back. You live with it, Mycroft. You always do. You always wonder could you have done something differently, killed a few more Germans, shot a few more ‘planes down? They called them aces, the ones who shot down several aircraft. We counted the kills like they were medals. I met a man once who said he had the distinction of never killing a man during the war. People looked up to him like he was… like gold came out of his backside. Perhaps he was the perfect soldier. Perhaps he was lucky. But he wore that like a badge of honour, as though us, those of us who killed, were worthless.”_

_“Jack,” Gerald murmured. “The boy doesn’t need to hear this.”_

_“He asked, didn’t he?” Mycroft’s grandfather said. “People die in war, Mycroft. Not just men. Women and children do too. There is no such thing as the winner and the loser. We all lose. Every man alive during times of war fights a battle they can’t ever win. All we hope as that we land with both feet on the ground and that by the end of it, they can pin a medal on our chests and not be forced to hand a box to our mothers instead. By 1942 we were bombing Germany at night. And that is a story for another time. You should go to bed, Mycroft.”_

_“But-”_

_“-No buts. Bed. Your parents will be furious at me for keeping you up so late.”_

_Mycroft nodded and collected his books up. “Do you have medals?” he asked._

_“I’ll show them next time you’re here.” His grandfather stood up and kissed the top of his hair. “To bed now. Brush your teeth first.”_

_Mycroft nodded. “Goodnight, Gerald,” he said, before jogging up the stairs._

_“You_ were _wearing a bloody scarf,” he heard Gerald say and Mycroft grinned to himself and went into his bedroom. He lay under the covers with a torch, reading his book. It was just gone midnight when he heard Gerald shouting out in his sleep, as he always did._

_He heard the door to his grandfather’s bedroom open, and the footsteps as he went into Gerald’s bedroom. Somehow, Mycroft knew never to ask about Gerald’s nightmares. He had a feeling he already knew where they came from._

* * *

**October 2008.**

**Location: Crusader House, Pall Mall, London.**

Mycroft collected his post and ripped a brown envelope open. He pulled out the birth certificate. Putting his newspapers down, he carried it through to his office.

_Name: Greg Knight._

_Date of birth: November 14, 1966._

_Place of birth: Epsom and St Helier University Hospital._

_Father’s name: Jerry Whitehead, aged 31. Place of birth: Battersea. Occupation: Publican._

_Mother’s name: Connie Knight, aged 22. Place of birth: Shoreditch._

So Greg’s birthday was wrong. Fifteen days wrong. Mycroft paused over the paper. That was a big age gap between his parents. And they were unmarried. Mycroft sighed as he went back to his computer to order more birth and death certificates. On a whim, he went onto a website full of copies of old newspapers. He searched Jerry Whitehead’s name, narrowing the search down to London.

He clicked on the first image. He read the headline. _Father in court for murder and robbery._

Mycroft closed his eyes for a moment. “Oh God, no,” he muttered, zooming in on the image. He read the story, shaking his head in disbelief.

_The estranged fiancee of a man accused of attempted murder and robbery yesterday testified against him at the Old Bailey. Jerry Whitehead, aged 31, stands accused of the attempted murder of Tobias Frieling and the robbery of several bookmakers and public houses in May last year._

_Connie Knight, aged 22 and the mother of Whitehead’s four-month-old child, told a jury how Whitehead returned home covered in blood and carrying a suitcase full of money. Wearing a black dress, blonde Miss Knight wiped her eyes as she gave testimony relating to the night of the shooting of Mr Frieling._

_Miss Knight told the court how she tried to scrub the blood out of his clothes before Whitehead threw them on a bonfire the following evening. Miss Knight, who had to take several breaks to have a glass of water throughout six hours of gruelling testimony, told how Whitebread bragged of his ability to break into public houses and threaten staff._

_She told the jury how she was frightened for her life and the life of her young son. She said she left her home with Whitehead when her son was born to protect him and he is currently being brought up by close friends. It is expected the defence will finish examining Miss Knight tomorrow lunchtime, before the prosecution begins its own examination of her evidence._

He sat back in his chair as he printed the article. This would destroy Greg, he knew. All those years of never once wanting to know about his family, only to find out his father had been tried for murder and his mother had been terrified of him.

He clicked on another story.

_A woman who gave testimony against her estranged fiance accused of attempted murder and robbery has been found dead two days after giving evidence in court. Connie Knight, aged 22 and the mother of a four-month-old boy, was found in the early hours of yesterday morning in Queensberry Way._

_Police say Miss Knight had been stabbed several times…_

Mycroft rubbed his forehead, finding he couldn’t read anymore. He printed the stories from each of the newspapers out, putting them in date order. But he couldn’t bring himself to read them.

Over the next few weeks, he found out more about Connie Knight and Jerry Whitehead. He researched their parents and Jerry’s crimes, until he had filled a folder. It was enough for now. If Greg wanted to delve further back into his family history then he could. Mycroft had a feeling this would be enough. He had a feeling Greg would be devastated by the truth.

It was with a heavy heart that he travelled to New Scotland Yard. When he walked into Greg’s office, he was smiling and relaxed, his wedding ring firmly on his finger.

“Want a coffee?” Greg asked. “I was just thinking of making one for myself.”

“No. Thank you.” Mycroft sat down and put the folder down on the desk.

Greg glanced down at it and stopped in his tracks. “That’s it then?” he asked. “The stuff about my… you know.”

Mycroft nodded. He sat in silence, his hands clasped on the desk as Greg made himself a drink before sitting back down again. His eyes flicked down to the folder and then up at Mycroft. He swallowed, hesitance in his eyes. “Just give it to me straight, Mycroft. I’d rather hear it from you.”

“Are you sure?” Mycroft asked, not sure he wanted to be the one to deliver the news. He had rather hoped Greg would want to read it alone. Mycroft had already made sure his evening was free, however, in case Greg might want to talk about it.

“No,” Greg said with a hollow laugh. “But do it anyway. Are they alive?”

“No.”

Greg dropped his head a bit as he nodded. “Go on.”

Mycroft watched him carefully as he told him about his date of birth and how he had tracked down his birth certificate.

“Your mother was called Connie Knight and she was 22 when she had you. We believe she left you at the hospital a week before she was due to give evidence in court against your father. She was killed two days after giving that evidence.”

Greg swallowed. “What… what did he do?”

“He was involved in a crime syndicate in the East End of London.”

Greg rubbed his face. “And, how did he…?”

“Died just after leaving prison in 1982.”

“How?”

“Heart attack.”

Greg nodded. “Right.”

Mycroft swallowed. Greg was doing his best to mask his feelings on the matter, but Mycroft could see a very real pain there. Mixed feelings, Mycroft supposed. He couldn’t even begin to imagine how Greg was feeling. “I’m sorry,” he said, and he really was. He’d read those newspaper reports so many times, and he'd wished they were false every time.

He even looked at the list of Gregs again, to find another one who may have been him. He’d extended the search to other London hospitals, in case he had been born somewhere else. But none of those other children had been adopted.

“So that’s that then. My d-” Greg swallowed and brushed a hand through his hair. “He was a criminal and she was… trying to do the right thing. Do they have any living relatives?”

“Only very distantly.”

“And me.” Greg murmured. He sipped his coffee pulled a face as he burnt his mouth. He stared down at his desk.

“I am quite certain she gave you away to protect you,” Mycroft murmured. “I know that offers little comfort.”

“It does. A bit.”

He looked so torn. So lost. Mycroft knew he wasn’t sure what to make of it all. For more than 40 years, he lived his life without ever making a concerted effort to find out who his parents were. And now he had, he found out one of them was a criminal. Worse - he was probably in some indirect way responsible for the death of Greg’s mother too.

Greg was staring down at his hands on the desk. He was trying so hard to stay strong, but his pain was all to clear.

“What can I do?” Mycroft asked him.

Greg looked at him. “Do?”

“I cancelled my meetings for this evening in case you wanted to spend some time talking. But if you would prefer I leave, then please, say.”

Greg stared at him for a moment. “Want to go get a drink somewhere?”

“Certainly.”

Greg stood up and looked down at the folder. “What’s in here?”

“Everything I could find. Your birth certificate, your parents’ birth certificates, court summons, census records, newspaper cuttings.”

Greg tucked it away in a drawer. “I’ll look at it at some point.”

Mycroft stood up and picked his umbrella up. “I’m terribly sorry.”

Greg shook his head. “I asked you to do this. I knew it wasn’t going to be good.”

They got in the car, and Mycroft asked Max to drive them to The Luggage Room in Mayfair. Greg stared down at his knees, and Mycroft heard his shaky breath. “If you would prefer to go home, I can take you there,” Mycroft said softly. He was sure it was far more appropriate for Greg to go home to his wife and be comforted by her instead.

Greg shook his head. “No. I’m alright. I could use a drink. So, what’s The Baggage Room?”

“Luggage,” Mycroft corrected. “It’s a bar, quiet and fairly exclusive. They regularly have musicians. I remember how you enjoyed the piano in Covent Garden.”

Greg swallowed and Mycroft wished he hadn’t mentioned that night. His birthday. Where they held hands at the table and kissed and talked and laughed… “Yeah, I did,” Greg said. “That guy was pretty good.”

“He was fairly average, but you were quite mesmerised.”

Greg glanced at Mycroft and managed a smile, but it didn’t meet his eyes. “He was average, huh?”

“To my ears, certainly.”

Greg snorted. “Cheers, Mycroft. You know how to make a guy feel good about himself.”

“I’m sorry.”

Greg laughed. “Don’t, it’s alright. You’re cheering me up at the same time as insulting me. Quite a skill you’ve got there.”

“One I have perfected over the years, I assure you.” Greg smiled and looked at him. “How are you feeling?” Mycroft asked.

Greg shrugged. “Bit numb really.”

“If there is anything I can do, say the word.”

“You’re doing it already.”

Mycroft nodded. The car stopped and Mycroft led him into the bar. It was a place for members only, and Mycroft had brought Anthea there a few times. The staff had a good memory for orders after only a few visits. He ordered some wine and a cheese board, and led him to the corner.

Mycroft sat on the red leather sofa, and Greg sat opposite him on the chair. Greg was glancing around while Mycroft watched him. Comforting him didn’t come easy, not anymore. Physical contact was out of the question, and so all he had was conversation.

“How was your honeymoon?” Mycroft asked once their wine had been poured.

“It was good, thanks.”

“Where did you go?”

“France, and then Bruges and Brussels.”

“Bruges is wonderful, did you go up the belfry?”

“I did, she didn’t. Jane’s afraid of heights.”

Mycroft nodded and sipped his wine. “I enjoyed the waffles rather too much,” he said. It had been a long time since he’d been to Bruges. He thought he would need to go again one day.

Greg laughed. “Yeah, me too. I think I ate too much full stop.”

“You don’t look it.”

Greg grinned. “Well. Thanks. I’ve had sometime to work it off chasing criminals and stuff.”

“How is Sherlock?”

“Fine, I think. I did a drug check about a week ago, and he was clean. He’s doing lots of stuff at Bart’s.” Greg frowned. “He still not speaking to you?”

“No.”

Greg rolled his eyes. “He seems alright anyway. Analysing tobacco or something.”

Mycroft nodded. “Yes, I have been keeping an eye on his website. I notice he leaves you out of his cases.”

Greg smiled. “Yeah. I don’t mind really. He can take the credit if he wants.”

“You are far too accommodating.”

“I need him on side.”

Mycroft nodded. “Yes, at least he is on someone’s side.” He shook his head. “I dread to think of the chaos he’s causing at Bartholomew’s.”

“He’s doing alright, that’s the main thing.”

The waiter brought their cheese board over and Mycroft pointed out the ones Greg should try.

“How easy was it?” Greg asked. “Finding all the information?”

“Not difficult once the care home found your records.”

Greg nodded. “Yeah, I thought they might have something.”

“I didn’t look at all of the files they had on you. Once I had your name and some other information, I didn’t require all of the paperwork they sent through. It’s in the folder, if you want it.”

“I wouldn’t have minded if you did,” Greg said. “It’s why I asked you. There’s no one else I’d have let do it. I don’t know why I let myself get talked into it. I just. I guess I just thought maybe it would make a difference. But why would it? It’s just loads of pieces of paper that say these two people existed, got together and ended up with a baby that for one reason or another, they didn’t want or couldn’t keep.”

“I imagine she did what she thought was best for you.”

Greg nodded. “Yeah. I guess so. Can’t have been easy for her.”

Mycroft nodded. “She spoke of you in court. It’s mentioned in the paper that she reported giving a child up for adoption.”

Greg frowned. “She left me in a hospital.”

“If she wanted to keep her identity a secret she could hardly have taken you to the correct authorities.”

Greg sighed. “Yeah. I guess. At least Greg’s my real name, right?”

Mycroft nodded. “Will you keep Lestrade?”

“Yeah. It’s been my name since I was 17, it would be stupid to change it now. It does feel like me. Like it’s my name. Whatever that means. It’s the stupid stuff though. When’s my official birthday again?”

“November 14.”

Greg shook his head. “See, they estimated my age, so my birthday’s always been the 29th. So, do I change my birthday? I’m 15 days older than I thought I was.”

“You do whatever you want to do.”

“It’s too soon I guess,” Greg said, taking a long drink of wine. He sighed and shook his head. “I just don’t really know what it means. Should I feel like a different person? Is there something wrong with me because my birth dad was a criminal?”

Mycroft shook his head, longing to reach out to him. “Not at all,” he said. God, how could anything be wrong with him? How could he ever dream that there was something wrong with him because of something his father had done 40 years ago? “I once told you the greatest compliment I could give you is I entrust you with the care of my brother,” Mycroft told him. Greg was staring down at his plate. “I stand by that. He may not be alive if it weren’t for you.”

Greg met his eyes, his lips pressed together.

“It’s only blood, Greg,” Mycroft told him. “It’s blood and genetic information. It doesn’t change the fact you are the most warm-hearted, honest, caring man I have had the good fortune of meeting.”

A moment of silence ticked by, and Greg ate some cheese and rubbed his face. Mycroft felt his cheeks warm, and he sipped his wine. Greg had to know Mycroft still had feelings for him after that outburst…

“It’s that nature and nurture debate, isn’t it?” Greg finally asked.

“No,” Mycroft said. “It doesn’t change anything. You are the person you are today because of the things which happened to you, but knowing what happened before you were old enough to remember does not erase any of those things. If anything, the fact you have become the person you are today despite your difficult childhood makes it all the more remarkable.”

“Thank you,” Greg whispered.

“I can’t begin to imagine how you are feeling.”

“A bit relieved,” Greg said. “A bit sad. For her. Angry with him. I might change my mind about this in a few days, but at the moment, I think I wish I didn’t know.”

“Why did you ask to find out?” Mycroft asked.

“It was stuff my dad said. About me and didn’t I wonder what had happened. I’ve lost count of how many times we had that conversation.” Mycroft nodded and topped their glasses up. Greg shrugged. “He made out like me knowing would make me feel like I belonged somewhere or something. I wanted to believe that.”

“And do you?”

“I don’t feel any different, Mycroft.” But he bit his lip. He looked so lost. Mycroft knew already that Greg had fears of abandonment. That he struggled to form attachments. Already knowing it was a terrible idea, Mycroft reached out for him and rested his hand on Greg’s arm. Greg’s eyes flicked to the touch and then to Mycroft’s face.

Greg offered him a small smile. “Thank you,” he said.

Mycroft squeezed his arm and then let go. He pointed out the cheese. “Have you tried this one?” he asked. “I believe this will go well with the wine.”

“I haven’t.” Greg spread some on a cracker. He took a deep breath. “Right. I’m done thinking about this. What have you been up to?”

Mycroft smiled a little.“I have been in security talks about the London Olympics. Keeping one eye on the first democratic election in the Maldives.”

“I want to go to the Olympics,” Greg said. “I’d love to see the 100m final.”

“I didn’t know you were an athletics fan.”

“I’m not. But it’s the Olympics. They’ll never be here again.”

Mycroft nodded. “I should be able to get some tickets for you.”

“Really?”

“Of course.”

Greg smiled. “I would love that.” He shook his head. “You keep doing things for me. I feel like I should do you a favour.”

“There’s no need.”

“Thank you anyway.”

Mycroft sipped his wine and frowned as his phone beeped. He glanced down at the screen. Papers relating to national security had been found on a train. The story was going to be front page news in the papers in the morning. “Greg, I’m sorry. I need to go to the office.”

Greg shook his head. “It’s alright. I understand.”

“I have time to drive you home.”

Greg smiled. “You sure?”

“Yes.” Mycroft had one large gulp of his wine and stood up.

Greg laughed. “Was that a good idea when you’re about to do something heroic or something?”

“Dealing with incompetent staff is never heroic,” Mycroft muttered, a little bitterly.

Greg grinned and followed him out of the bar and back down the stairs.

Mycroft sat on his phone, texting Anthea to get more details. The reports had related to al-Qaeda and had been delivered to the Daily Mail once they’d been found by a train passenger. Mycroft rolled his eyes. The car stopped and Mycroft glanced over at Greg.

“Cheers, Mycroft,” Greg said. “For doing that research and for cancelling your meeting.”

“Anytime,” Mycroft replied. Greg smiled at him, but it didn’t meet his eyes. Mycroft tried to smile back. He watched as he walked towards his building. “Go,” he said softly to Max. He didn’t want to think of Greg returning to his wife for comfort. He didn't want to think of the pain he'd just caused him, inadvertently or not. And he wished more than anything, that he could have been the one to try to wash it all away.

 


	43. Uneasy Truces

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This has been so long coming. I'm so sorry. The chapter wasn't playing ball. And nor was my brain. 
> 
> But here, have a look at my pictures of the Natural History Museum and how it ties into HR and Con Falls...: http://saziikins.tumblr.com/post/117545828653/natural-history-museum-its-place-in-the-human

**October 2008.**

**Location: The Defence Secretary’s Office, Whitehall, London.**

The Secretary was pacing, leaning over to check his laptop every 30 seconds.

“It will ring,” Mycroft reminded him. “You’ll hear it. Sit down and drink your tea.”

“They should have called by now,” the Secretary muttered, frowning. “Oh God. Fuck. Shit. Bugger. Bollocks.”

Mycroft raised his eyebrows. “Would you like a thesaurus? I think there are a few curse words you haven’t used yet.”

“Don’t be a condescending prat.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” Mycroft said. He glanced at the laptop as it began to ring. “And there we are, right on time.”

“Late, actually,” the Secretary muttered bitterly before answering the call.

The American Secretary of State shook his head as he answered, his face filling the screen. “Nope,” he said.

Mycroft sighed and shook his head. “Bugger,” he muttered.

“I bet you want that thesaurus now, don’t you?” the Defence Secretary muttered.

“Go on,” Mycroft said, ignoring him.

The American Secretary sighed. “It just… broke down. Talks broke down. The North Koreans aren’t going to back down on their nuclear facility until they have assurances South Korea will stop being confrontational. The North’s threatened to the turn the South into ‘debris’ if they don’t back off.”

“What is the President’s view?” Mycroft asked.

“The President thinks it’s the next guy’s problem.”

“There may not be a next President if North Korea’s nuclear capabilities are as far along as your diplomat claims.” Mycroft bit his bottom lip. “We’ll work with the South Koreans. As far as I’m aware, we still have some bartering tools at our disposal. You keep working with the North Koreans.”

“How about a good cop/bad cop routine?”

“Could work,” the Defence Secretary said. “I reckon we need a third party involved though. Us and you lot won’t cut it.”

“China won’t get involved, I assume?” Mycroft asked.

“Unlikely.”

“Does France have any influence in that region at all anymore?”

“Doubt it.”

“It may be worth exploring in the future,” Mycroft said. “In the mean time, let’s stick to the original plan. We’ll encourage the South Koreans to retreat and stop being so… confrontational. You should offer the North Koreans something.”

“Like what?” the State Secretary for the US asked.

“Take them off your list of countries you claim are state sponsors of terrorism. It’s a small, insignificant gesture that will mean a lot to them. You’ll be criticised for it, certainly. But as you say, that’s the next guy’s problem.”

“We’ll be in touch in an hour,” the American said before hanging up.

Mycroft nodded and rose from his chair. “The original team who went to Seoul in 2006 will know what the South Koreans wanted and didn’t get. I think it’s time to start giving them a little more of what they wanted. Do you need me for this?”

“No, we’ve got it,” the Defence Secretary said. “The Prime Minister’s on his way back from the Lord Mayor’s dinner now, so he’ll be ready to talk to the South Koreans in half an hour.”

“Then I should make a speedy getaway before he realises I had any involvement,” Mycroft said.

The Defence Secretary scratched his nose. “This is a ridiculous situation. This country clearly needs you. The PM clearly needs you.”

“Then I’ll leave you to make the case. At the moment, I’m just lucky to be holding onto my job in the Civil Service. He blames me, as ridiculous as it sounds, for his 42-day terrorism bill failing. I told him it would fail in the House Of Lords and it did. It doesn’t mean I had anything to do with it.” Mycroft shook his head. “It doesn’t matter. I have your ear, and you’re smart enough to listen. Goodnight, Mr Secretary.”

“Night, Mycroft.”

So much for a birthday, he thought when he finally got home and kicked his shoes off. Not that he had any plans for it, but he fancied a glass of wine and a nice meal. But nothing was ever that simple, not really. He undressed and lay down under the covers, staring up at the ceiling.

There was too much to think about again. He could feel his mind racing. He sighed and rubbed his face. He leaned over to turn the lamp off.

He closed his eyes, picturing the entrance to the Natural History Museum. He let out a contented sound. He felt his muscles relax, the tension evaporating from his shoulders.

_He walked into the vast hall. ‘That’s it’, he though as he approached Dippy. ‘It’s not so bad, is it? North Korea might be about to destroy the world, but it’s not so bad in here’._

_He glanced around the large rooms and at the entrance to the dinosaurs. Instead though, he walked up the stairs, up and up, until he reached the room of treasures. Darwin’s pigeons, and Archaeopteryx, and On The Origin Of Species. But his eyes were drawn to the corner of the room._

_“You’re not supposed to be in here,” he murmured, resting his hand on the glass, looking down at Archaeopteryx._

_“Why not?” Greg asked him, taking a step behind him and resting his chin on Mycroft’s shoulder._

_“Because it’s a dream.”_

_“Does it matter?” Greg asked, pressing a gentle kiss to Mycroft’s neck, below his ear. His hand curled around Mycroft’s hip._

_“It’s not real.”_

_“Shh. Let it go.”_

_Mycroft closed his eyes, tilting his head back so it rested against Greg’s shoulder. “They’re going to blow each other up, you know? The two Koreas.”_

_“Yeah, maybe they will,” Greg agreed. “They probably won’t. You know they won’t.”_

_“You don’t know that," Mycroft said. "You’re not real. You’re just reporting my subconscious thoughts back to me.”_

_“95 per cent sure they won’t.”_

_Mycroft hummed as Greg’s arms wrapped around him from behind and he took hold of his hands. He didn’t wear a ring. “The dinosaurs are extinct, you know.”_

_“Yeah,” Greg said softly. “Yeah, I know. I don’t think it’s people’s time yet.”_

_“Homo Sapiens. They, we, can’t stop fighting one another.”_

_“True,” Greg whispered. “But they - we - do other things too. Kinder things. Nicer things.”_

_“Not all of us,” Mycroft replied softly._

_“You just left me, Mycroft,” Greg whispered. “Why didn’t you fight harder for me? What were you so afraid of?”_

_Mycroft frowned, opening his eyes and staring down at the remains of Archaeopteryx. ‘I was afraid. You’d have left eventually. You’d have seen right through me. You distract me. You make it harder to make the difficult decisions. Sherlock always ends up on drugs. You were in danger. You would have been killed’._

_“I miss you,” he said instead._

_“Open the drawer,” Greg said._

_Mycroft frowned and reached down, gently pulling it out. There was an email, written in December 2006. ‘I miss you too’, Greg had written. Mycroft bit his lip and turned around but Greg was gone_.

Mycroft swallowed as he opened his eyes. He didn’t know whether he had been dreaming or consciously fantasising. Either way, his thoughts were racing more than ever.

* * *

**November 2008.**

**Location: Coeur de Lion Offices, Mayfair, London.**

Bill Tomlinson, one of the top MI6 agents in the country and now in Mycroft’s employment, was one of those people who liked to showcase his money. He liked to invite his friends and co-workers to extravagant parties in his ostentatious home, filled with pictures of his ancestors.

To give him some credit, the evening was raising money for charity. Bill and Mycroft had known each other a long time. He had been there, in Pakistan, when Jimmy Dine had been killed, working on the same mission as them both. Mycroft had been handed a glass of champagne upon arrival at the bar area Bill had created. But he stood with it, having not tasted a drop, glancing occasionally at the football on the screens.

Bill smiled as he joined him. “There is nothing in the world like some classical music and the football,” he said, nodding his head towards where the pianist had just started playing. “I’m glad you could come.”

“You’re very welcome. I won’t be staying long, however. I’ve put some money down for the auction and I will need to leave shortly.”

“I’m just glad you came.” Bill frowned for a moment. “May I talk to you for a moment?”

“Aren’t we already engaging in conversation?”

Bill rolled his eyes. “I had a phone call from Toby Goff of the CIA last week.”

Mycroft narrowed his eyes. “What did he want?”

“They were working on something with Hugh Seagrove’s people, I don’t know what. He wondered whether I would go and do some work for them.”

“And what did you say?” Mycroft asked.

“I said no, of course. That ship sailed many years ago.” Bill frowned. “I assume you haven’t heard yet?”

“Heard what?”

“The Americans. They captured Hilel Klahr’s fourth-in-command. They’re holding him somewhere in Europe at the moment. I wasn’t supposed to say anything, but, I thought you deserved to know.”

Mycroft bit his bottom lip. In the 12 years since Jimmy Dine had died, he knew Toby Goff had devoted a lot of his time and the CIA’s time to capturing Hilel Klahr's successor, Dadua Reza. He was responsible for the deaths of hundreds of people. And Jimmy. But somehow, down the line, Mycroft thought they may have given up the search to hunt down the bigger fish, those who had become more influential in the world's terrorist organisations. “Thank you,” he finally murmured. “I’m grateful.”

Bill nodded. “They will find Reza. I’m sure he will tell you when he does.” Bill held his glass up. “To them finally tracking Jimmy Dine’s man.”

Mycroft nodded and tapped his glass to Bill’s. “To finding Dadua Reza,” he said. And then tearing him limb from limb…

* * *

Empty rooms, vacant spaces. He felt it sometimes. After closing the door to his flat, he almost felt the echoes as he walked around the space. Everything in order, everything in its rightful place, contrasting with the chaos in his head.

He would sit on the sofa, and imagine how he would feel when he heard the news Dadua Reza was captured and dead. It wouldn’t bring Jimmy Dine back. Perhaps it would be enough to bring some sort of peace to the sorry mess.

It wouldn’t be enough though. Peace didn’t change what had gone before.

And sometimes Mycroft thought that even Dadua Reza's death wouldn’t bring even the smallest amount of peace. Only Greg Lestrade could bring him that.

* * *

It was Anthea who broke the news of Sherlock’s arrest to him. Mycroft raised his eyebrows. “I have half a mind to leave him there,” he muttered. “It might teach him a thing or two. What are they charging him with?”

“Suspicion of perverting the course of justice.”

Mycroft raised his eyebrows. “Ah. That charge is actually rather likely. Who was the arresting officer?”

“Who do you think?”

“Greg Lestrade.” Mycroft sighed. “Very well. I’ll…” He blinked as his phone went off. He smiled in amusement as Greg’s name appeared. “Speak of the devil.” He pressed the button to answer the call. “How long are you allowed to keep him in custody for?” he asked.

Greg laughed. “You’ve already heard then? That was quick.”

“I have a member of staff dedicated to watching Sherlock at all times.”

“Really?”

Mycroft grinned despite himself. “No, not really. Though perhaps I should invest in someone. What exactly did he do?”

“Stole a laptop with vital evidence from a crime scene.”

“Ah.”

“Look, I just arrested him to scare him a bit.”

“I don’t blame you.”

“Come and get him whenever you want him.

Mycroft smiled. “I may let him stew for a little while. I’ll see you later, once I’ve put him out of his misery.”

“Alright,” Greg chuckled. “I’ll see you later, Mycroft.”

Mycroft hung up and glanced at Anthea.  “Thank you for letting me know,” he told her. “I’m going to continue working for now.”

She nodded. “Of course,” she said with a smile. “I haven’t seen you smile like that in a long time.”

Mycroft frowned. “Anthea,” he warned.

She shrugged one shoulder and walked out. He rolled her eyes at her impertinence, but even he couldn’t deny how much more relaxed he suddenly felt. For the first time in months, his mind felt a lot clearer.

He left for New Scotland Yard a few hours later. Sherlock glared up at him from the bed, his arms folded. “You could have come hours ago,” he muttered, hauling himself up.

“Where would the lesson have been in that?” Mycroft asked with a smug smile.

“It’s torture. It shouldn’t be legal.”

“What shouldn’t? Imprisoning someone who committed a crime?”

Sherlock rolled his eye and began to follow him. “Imprisoning someone to make a point. Although, I suppose that’s actually something you would do.”

“Hardly,” Mycroft said. “You committed a crime, Sherlock, and Detective Inspector Lestrade acted accordingly.”

“You would take his side,” Sherlock muttered.

“It was four hours, Sherlock. Not even that.”

“It was hell on earth. Where are you leading me?”

“To see the Inspector.”

“No,” Sherlock said. “I do not need to go and watch you making gooey eyes at him.”

“I’ll just request he puts you back in a cell then, shall I?”

Sherlock glared at him. “I despise you.”

Mycroft just nodded and continued walking to the Serious Crime Division. “Your contempt hasn’t escaped my notice,” he said. “No good comes in sharing your feelings with the world, Sherlock. Haven’t you realised that yet?”

“You’re a hypocrite.”

“Am I?” Mycroft asked, turning to him. “Very well. Deduce me. What can you say about me that you don’t already know?”

Sherlock stared at him for a moment. “Well, you… Got home late last night.”

“I get home late every night. The fact is, Sherlock, that you’re as transparent as those you criticise. Your weaknesses are all laid bare, for anyone to pick apart. If only they knew where to look.” Mycroft knocked on Greg’s door and opened it with a smile. “Good afternoon,” he said as he sat down.

Greg grinned. “Alright,” he replied, glancing up to where Sherlock stood leaning against the wall.

“Sherlock has been telling me all about his afternoon of sheer hell.”

Greg laughed. “He had it coming.”

“Have you charged him?” Mycroft asked. 

“Not yet,” Greg said. “Tempting though it is, I think he might have learnt his lesson. For now.”

“Thank you, Greg. Though I believe a brief incarceration would only be a benefit to Sherlock, it would be quite embarrassing for me.”

“No worries. I’ve got the laptop now, and there’s nothing interesting in it.” Greg looked up at Sherlock. “But if you think you’re coming to one of my crime scenes for a while, Sherlock, you better think again Either of you want a drink?” Greg asked, standing up.

“No,” Sherlock muttered. “We’re leaving.”

“Actually, I would like a coffee,” Mycroft said, smiling. He exchanged a look with Greg, and he grinned at him, beginning to make some drinks.

“Sugar?” Greg asked.

“I. No. Trying to cut down.”

Sherlock snorted and Mycroft glared at him. Greg put their drinks down.

“Do I really have to be here while the two of you act all superior?” Sherlock asked. “It’s tiring.”

“Yeah, actually,” Greg said. “I quite like this new-found power I have over you.”

Mycroft and Greg shared an amused look. “And how is the Tower House case?” Mycroft asked, taking a sip of his coffee. Ah. He’d forgotten New Scotland Yard coffee left so much to be desired.

“Not brilliant, but we’ll sort it.”

“I’m sure you will. I’m sure you’ll be amused to know I was forced to watch football last week.”

Greg laughed. “I can’t even imagine that. Where were you?”

“At a fundraiser for a cancer charity. One of my colleagues was running it, and I had to put in an appearance for 15 minutes. Of course, there was a match on in the bar, and I was forced to stand and watch while waiting to make my excuses.”

“And what did you think?” Greg asked.

“I don’t entirely see the appeal.”

Greg laughed. “You’d get the appeal if you saw me running around in shorts, I’m sure.”

Mycroft opened his mouth. ‘Oh, I’m certain I would’, he was about to say. Inappropriate. It would have been considered, well, as much as he hated the word, it would have been considered flirting.

“I just mean it’s a lot funnier watching me try and play football,” Greg clarified.

“I’m sure you’re fine,” Mycroft said.

“I try. That’s the main thing. Anyway, you said you don’t entirely get the appeal?”

“There was a certain elegance to some phases of play.”

“The passing bits?” Greg asked.

“Yes. But then it all got rather messy.”

Greg laughed. “I’ll make a football fan of you yet.”

“I very much doubt that,” Mycroft said, with a smile.

“What you doing for Christmas?” Greg asked.

“Spending it at our family home.”

“Alone?”

“Thankfully, yes,” Mycroft said.

Greg nodded. “I’m working again this year.”

Mycroft frowned at him. He had a new wife and a new home, he imagined they would be spending it together. “Is everything well?” he asked.

“Yeah, it is. I took off last year, but it seemed only fair if I worked this one to make up for it.”

Mycroft studied him for a moment. He did look tired, if he admitted it to himself. When the smile fell off his face, it left behind worn eyes. Nightmares causing sleepless nights, perhaps? “Greg, if you ever need to talk about what we discovered about your relatives, you only need pick up the phone.”

Greg smiled at him. “I know. I’m alright.”

“You’re sleeping well?”

Sherlock huffed. “Obviously not,” he muttered.

“Yeah, I’m sleeping fine, thanks. I wasn’t. But I’m better now.”

Mycroft nodded. “I am working much of December, but perhaps in January we can go out for dinner?”

He watched as a slow smile spread over Greg’s face, lighting up his eyes. His obvious tiredness seemed to dissolve in an instant. “Yeah. Definitely. I think I could use a catch-up.”

“Excellent,” Mycroft said, standing up. “I will be in touch.”

Greg smiled at him. “Looking forward to it. I’m warning you, Sherlock. I’ll call _you_ when I want you in on a case. You do not start doing things on your own, or next time I will charge you, whether it embarrasses Mycroft or not.”

Mycroft nodded his head. “Thank you, Greg.”

Greg smiled. “Least I can do.”

Mycroft led Sherlock out of the office and closed the door behind them.

* * *

**December 2008.**

**Location: The Coeur de Lion Offices, Mayfair, London.**

He collected his coat from the coat rail, fastening it from the top down. He put a navy blue scarf on and turned his head as Anthea walked in. “This just arrived,” she said, putting a box down on the desk. It was wrapped in red paper, with green Christmas trees covering it.

Mycroft frowned and checked the card. It was from Greg. He used his letter opener to slide through the sellotape before peeling back the pper. He narrowed his eyes at the box. Grow your own venus fly trap, it said.

From beside him, Anthea laughed. “That’s… cute,” she said.

“Cute?” Mycroft frowned and opened the box. “There’s a flower pot and soil.” He put the box down, staring at it. “I’m not convinced I could keep this alive.”

“Why don’t we plant it after Christmas, and I’ll take care of it?” Anthea suggested.

“Would you?” Mycroft asked, glancing at her. “Well, I suppose there is something rather… amusing about it.”

“It would brighten the room up.”

“It would catch the flies in the summer. If we can keep it alive that long.” Mycroft smiled, amused. “Very well. If you’ll keep it fed and watered, then…” He laughed and shook his head. “Have a nice Christmas.”

“You too,” she said as she left the room.

Mycroft smiled and sat down at his desk, opening his laptop up again. He read the instructions for the venus fly trap before sending Greg an email.

 

To: Lestrade, Greg.  
Subject: Gift  
Dear Greg,  
I have just received your rather spectacular gift. Anthea is doting on it, so I assure you it will not come to harm.  
I wish it would grow up to eat more than just flies. A few politicians would not go amiss!  
Have a wonderful Christmas, I shall see you in January.  
Kindest regards,  
Mycroft Holmes.

 

He sat back in his chair and closed the screen down again. He threw the wrapping paper away but kept the card, slipping it into his desk drawer. He pushed it closed and then caught himself. Sentiment, he thought, shaking his head. He sighed and took the card back out again, dropping it down into the bin.

He walked out of his office and into his car, before beginning his drive to Oak Manor.

He turned the fire on when he arrived, taking a seat beside it with a book. He glanced around the room, all dusted and cleaned in the past few days. Frowning to himself, he got up and wandered into his mother’s study. He browsed the spines of the books, running his finger along the wooden shelves.

He’d chosen to stay at Oak Manor because he liked the walks through the garden and the surrounding fields. He liked browsing his parents’ books and venturing under the eaves, to find even more books, some old, first editions which needed to kept somewhere warmer. He always found a new treasure there to spend some time with.

He heard a creak on a floorboard. He frowned, standing up straight. A thump, not loud, but enough to make him listen.

He walked up the stairs, listening out. He had a feeling it came from the room above the study. The door to Sherlock’s old bedroom was ajar. Frowning, Mycroft pushed the door open. He and the bedraggled black cat stared at one another. It hissed. Mycroft raised his eyebrows. “You don’t belong here,” he told the cat. “I’m not even sure how you got in.”

He glanced down at the floor, to the dead mouse. He paused. “But I suppose you can stay, if you manage to keep the vermin at bay.” He shook his head and walked back out of the room.

The cat provided little company over the coming days. He or she would prowl the upstairs, and hiss when Mycroft got too close. “This is my bedroom,” he tried to protest. “You’re the one who doesn’t belong here, not me.”

They came to an uneasy truce on New Year’s Eve, when Mycroft read a book on his bed and the cat lay a dead bird on the floor. He frowned. “Charming,” he muttered. “You’re going to have to leave tomorrow. I can’t have you leaving miniature skeletons in every room for me to find next time I come here.”

The cat dropped down onto its belly. Mycroft managed a small smile as he watched it, before it clamped its jaws around the bird again and proceeded to carry it out of the room.

* * *

**December 1984.**

**Location: The Holmes cottage, Gloucestershire.**

_He could hear the clinking of knives and forks from downstairs as his parents did the washing up. He put his fingers over his ears as he tried to focus on the words on the page. He picked his pen up, twirling it between his fingers._

_The door to his parents’ bedroom swung open, the handle slamming into the wall. He smacked his hand down on the desk, swivelling in his seat to stare at Sherlock. “What?” he snapped._

_His brother narrowed his eyes at him, crossing his arms. “Mummy wanted to know if you wanted dessert?”_

_Mycroft rolled his eyes and turned back to his work. “No.”_

_“What are you doing?”_

_“Working.” He turned the page in his book, waiting for Sherlock to go. When he didn’t, Mycroft sighed, turning round to face him again. “Now what?”_

_“What’s wrong with us?”_

_Mycroft frowned. “What?”_

_“Why is everyone so stupid?”_

_“Because most people are,” Mycroft answered. “I’m trying to-”_

_“-I understand that I’m clever. What I don’t understand is how they’re all… all of them are…”_

_“So stupid?”_

_“Mmm. Why?”_

_Mycroft shrugged. “Genetics?” he suggested. “A good education from our parents. Who knows.”_

_“I hate children,” Sherlock muttered._

_“You are a child.”_

_“I hate you.”_

_Mycroft rolled his eyes and looked back at his book._

_“What are you reading?” Sherlock asked._

_“I’m reading a book about the Nazis for my Modern History examination.”_

_Sherlock let out a disgruntled sound. “What’s the point in that?” he asked. “It’s not useful. Science is useful. Maths is useful.”_

_Mycroft groaned. “Run along and annoy someone else.”_

_“I hate it here. Mummy says I have to go to school.”_

_“We both have to go to school,” Mycroft told him. “Apparently it’ll be good for us.”_

_Sherlock scowled at him, scuffing his shoe against the floor. “I want to go back to the old house.”_

_“Well, you can’t,” Mycroft snapped at him. “We live here now. So, get used to it.”_

_“You’re the worst older brother in the world,” Sherlock snapped at him, before turning and leaving, slamming the door closed behind him._

_“Sherlock Holmes!” Mycroft heard his mother shout from downstairs. “Stop slamming doors.”_

_Mycroft groaned and covered his ears as he tried to concentrate._

* * *

 

**January 2009.**

**Location: Crusader House, Pall Mall, London.**

Mycroft returned to London a few days after New Year’s Eve. He’d never worked out how the cat was getting in and out of the house. He had tried to follow it a few times, but the cat was faster and could slink out of sight. He could imagine it was sitting proudly on the top of the stairs, imagining it now owned the house…

Mycroft was working from home when Sherlock joined him, dropping a host of photographs across his desk. Mycroft frowned as he picked one of them up, staring down at the pictures of the mutilated body.

“Is this supposed to be a Christmas present?” Mycroft asked, studying the arrangement of the man’s organs.

“It’s a case. It got posted to my website.”

“Ah. How very… pleasant.”

“It’s intriguing, so far. Do you recognise him?”

Mycroft frowned, staring at the man’s head. “Possibly. If I do, I haven’t seen him for a long time and it’s a little difficult to be certain, seeing as he is missing both his eyes and his nose.”

“There’s something very wrong with us,” Sherlock muttered, crossing his arms.

“Why do you say that?”

“What do people see, when they look at that picture?”

Mycroft paused, frowning. “Blood. Organs. Death.”

“What do you see?”

“I see signs of torture. Faint, but present on his arms. I see a man stuck indoors for weeks on end. I see… a man killed to make a statement.”

“He’s MI6.”

“Are you sure?” Mycroft asked.

Sherlock nodded. “Was MI6. He hasn’t been MI6 for a good 10 years. The body was found in a cellar, but he wasn’t killed there.”

Mycroft nodded. “Yes, so I see.” He frowned and handed the photographs back to Sherlock. “Did you want some additional insight?”

“I thought you’d be curious. Since he’s MI6.”

“Was MI6,” Mycroft corrected with a half smile. “And no, I’m sure you’ll cope. Was there anything else?”

Sherlock frowned. “No.” He glanced down at the newspaper on Mycroft’s desk. “Reading about Lestrade’s cases?”

Mycroft paused and looked down at his copy of The Daily Mail. It was open on the page about a series of three murders. A suspect had just been arrested. “I wasn’t aware it was one of DI Lestrade’s cases,” he murmured.

“Liar,” Sherlock said. “You wouldn’t read about it otherwise.”

Mycroft narrowed his eyes at him. “I read newspapers every day.”

“You read about politics. You don’t read criminal trivia. Not unless it has a link to something… bigger. And you would have known this doesn’t from the headline.”

Mycroft crossed his arms. “Are you trying to make some sort of point?”

“You told me sentiment was dangerous.”

“And so it is.”

“Hypocrite,” Sherlock said.

Mycroft frowned at him. “Look, whatever you’re accusing me of…”

“I actually almost tolerated you when you were with him. Now you have an even greater air of… superiority than you had before.”

Mycroft rolled his eyes. “Let’s end this discussion now, shall we?"

“Look at yourself, brother. Look at your laptop. What is that? A proposal for more CCTV cameras? To be monitored by whom, exactly? You? At least when you were with Lestrade, he provided you with some sort of balance. Now you’re stretching your fingers out to every single pie you can find… And it’s beginning to show on your waist-line, actually.”

Mycroft glared at him. “Get to the point.”

“You couldn’t control your relationship, so now you’re trying to control everything else. But somethings are out of your control for a reason. They should stay that way.”

“I was perfectly in control of our… association with one another.”

Sherlock snorted. “In control? You couldn’t have been more out of control than if you’d been swept up by a hurricane. But your relationship kept you both off my back. Now Lestrade has become intolerable and you’re trying to single-handedly run the entire country. Do you know what I see when I look at you, Mycroft? Fear. You can’t control anything. And you couldn’t control Lestrade either, could you?”

“There were pictures, Sherlock!” Mycroft snapped. “His life was in danger.”

“You actually cared about him and just let him leave,” Sherlock replied.

“Nonsense. We were merely colleagues.”

He looked up with a start as Greg walked into the room. “Hi,” Greg said with a confused smile. He’d heard too much, Mycroft knew in an instant.

“Sherlock was just leaving,” Mycroft said looking at him. Sherlock glared at him for a moment before turning on his heels, storming out of the flat. Mycroft pursed his lips, waiting for the door to slam. He winced when he heard it.

“He’s chatty tonight,” Greg said.

“I apologise.”

“You never have to apologise for Sherlock. I brought wine. I know it’s probably not as good as your usual stuff.”

Mycroft stood up and walked over to him. “Thank you.” He took the bottle from him, and their fingers brushed together. Mycroft strolled from the room, feeling it like electric shocks. Just one touch and his heart raced. He tensed as Greg stepped into the kitchen and he kept his back to him, pouring the wine. It wasn’t his usual preference, but it seemed impolite not to drink it.

Mycroft ordered them Thai food for dinner. He made a suggestion for Greg to have Thai green curry, and Greg told him to order it for him. Mycroft made the call and then led Greg to his living room. He took a seat beside the fire, watching as Greg made himself comfortable on the settee opposite. “How was Christmas?” Mycroft asked.

“Quiet. The criminals were pretty good at not committing too much crime this year. I guess they all got their presents from Santa.”

Mycroft laughed, and it steadied his nerves. “Good.”

“Yours?”

“Wonderfully quiet. I spent most of it reading.”

“New books?”

“No, re-reading old ones.”

“Any I’d enjoy?”

“Yes,” Mycroft replied. He wandered over to his bookshelf, pulling a few out. The Wrecker, by Robert Louis Stevenson. The Holy Terror by HG Wells. A collection of Henry James’ short Gothic horror stories. And George Orwell’s Nineteen Eighty-Four, because he knew Greg would have heard of that one.

Mycroft carried the books over and sat down beside Greg on the sofa.

“Don’t mean to use you as my personal library,” Greg said.

Mycroft chuckled. “You’re not. I’m glad they’re being read. This is a selection of short Gothic horror stories.” He paused, frowning. “Perhaps you had better read them when you’re not suffering from nightmares.”

Greg laughed. “I’m alright at the moment. Don’t think I’ve had any for a couple of months. They started after I found out about my natural parents.”

Mycroft sat back in the chair, watching him. “Do you expect the two events were connected?”

“Pretty sure, yeah.”

“What do you tend to dream about?” Mycroft asked.

Greg shrugged. “Depends. There’s a case.” Greg hesitated, rubbing his fingers against his knees. “There’s one case, that sometimes comes into my head. Other times, it’s just me in enclosed spaces, or running from something.”

“With an associated feeling of terror.”

Greg nodded. “Yeah.”

“What are your feelings on your parents now?”

Greg shrugged. “I haven’t thought about it. I know that sounds stupid, or like I’m running away. I just don’t. Can’t.”

“I understand,” Mycroft said. “As long as you aren’t working yourself to exhaustion.”

In truth, Greg appeared more settled than he had when Mycroft last saw him.

“You and me always work ourselves to exhaustion,” Greg said. “And don’t say you don’t, because I’ve seen you.”

Mycroft nodded. “I know.”

Greg put the books down on the table. “Thanks for those. I look forward to reading them.”

“You’re welcome.” Mycroft frowned. “How has Sherlock seemed to you?” he asked.

“A pain in my backside,” Greg laughed. Mycroft nodded with a knowing smile. “I guess that’s not what you meant though. More independent. A bit more like he’s beginning to find his way. I dunno. He just seems a bit more sure of himself now he’s taking his own cases.”

Mycroft nodded. “That was my impression too.”

“Not to say he’s not driving me up the wall at times,” Greg grinned. “But it’s good. And how are you?”

“The same as ever. Exceptionally busy.”

“You and me both. We’ve got this new paperwork system coming in at work in the next few months. I’m trying to get to grips with it now before it starts rolling out throughout the force.”

“Do you have to teach your fellow officers?”

“Yeah, I think so.”

Mycroft looked up at the knock on the door and collected their food. From the kitchen, he could hear Greg opening the cupboards. Noises. Sounds, the spaces being filled. His flat wasn’t vacant and empty now. It was full of conversation and footsteps. Mycroft paid the man and wandered in to join him.

Greg was laying the table when Mycroft walked in. He took the cutlery out of the drawer and passed the spoons to Greg. They walked past each other, Greg opening the box of rice while Mycroft emptied the prawn crackers into a bowl.

Eventually they sat at the table.

“Perhaps we should have some water,” Mycroft said, about to push his chair back.

Greg touched his arm. “I’ll get it,” he said. Mycroft stared down at his arm. Did he knew he was even doing that? Mycroft wondered. Was it by accident or design? He couldn’t say.

Mycroft poured the content of their boxes onto their plates while Greg poured them each a glass of water. Greg took a seat and held his glass up. “So, happy 2009 then, yeah?”

Mycroft tapped their glasses together. “Yes, indeed.”

Greg had a bite of his food and nodded. “Great pick. Thank you.”

Mycroft smiled, pleased, and began to eat his own food. They were silent for a few minutes, enjoying their meals and the wine.

“Can you tell me about anything you’ve been working on?” Greg asked.

“A new surveillance system. I’ve been working with experts on perfecting the locations where CCTV is placed across London. It has been a year in the planning. It was inspired by the fact we lost sight of the SUV which barged you into the Thames.”

Greg raised his eyebrows. “Your new project is because of me?”

“In part. It bothers me that we were never able to follow Edmund Bullock’s movements after the incident.”

Greg frowned. “Mycroft, none of that was your fault. You know that, right?”

Mycroft took a long sip of his wine. Yes, it was, he wanted to say. Every part of it was his fault. He’d involved Greg in it all. He could have been killed on more than on occasion… “We could have been better prepared,” Mycroft said instead.

Greg shook his head. “No. No, we couldn’t have been.”

“Nonetheless, we are working on a new system, and I’m hopeful it will be vastly improved.”

“Well, if you’re behind it, I’m sure it’ll be great. We never complain about a bit of extra CCTV in the police. Difficult balancing act, I guess, between protecting people and protecting their privacy.”

Mycroft nodded. “Of course. It will be safeguarded to ensure it is is non-invasive.”

“Safeguarded by who?” Greg looked at him. “By you,” he said.

Mycroft paused, watching him. “You are remarkable. If you were to listen to Sherlock speak, you would think you have the mental prowess of a five year old. And yet you continually remind me that simply is not the case.”

Greg laughed. “It’s not about me being smart. I just know how to read you.”

“A skill I find quite frightening,” Mycroft said as he tried to mask his expression behind his drink.

“Well, I find your power quite frightening when I think about it, so we’re even on that score.”

Mycroft nodded and stood up, collecting their empty plates. “I am on your side rather than against you, so I don’t believe there’s anything to be concerned about.”

Greg laughed. “Glad you are. You’d scare the shit out of me if I came across you at a meeting.”

Mycroft laughed and turned the taps on. “We both know that’s not the case.”

“Isn’t it?”

Mycroft licked his lips, watching as the water filled the sink. “You’ve never been afraid of me.”

“Guess not, no.” Silence fell between them for a moment. “Can I help you dry?”

“Certainly.”

Greg joined him by the sink, waiting while Mycroft began to wash up the first dish.

“What are you like with other people?” Greg asked.

Mycroft frowned. “How do you mean?”

“The way you are with me. You’re not like this with other people, are you?”

Mycroft looked at him. He was caught off-guard again. He wasn’t sure what the correct answer was. He didn’t know if there even was a correct answer. “Greg, I would consider you to be my only friend.”

Greg nodded. “So, that’s a yes then. It’s just me.”

Mycroft stared into the sink, turning his body away from him a little as he cleaned a mug from earlier. “We have known each other almost four years. We have built up a lot of respect in that time.”

Greg took a plate from him and dried it before putting it away. “I know. And I’m different with you too.”

Mycroft felt his jaw tighten and he made quick work of cleaning up the last of the plates. He watched as Greg dried the last plate and then Mycroft handed their wine glasses to him. “Take these to the living room, I’ll join you in a minute.”

Greg smiled at him and walked out of the kitchen. Mycroft’s eyes fell closed as he gripped onto the side. ‘It’s just me’, Greg had said. Mycroft frowned, staring at the crockery in the drying rack. Just Greg? Well, yes, just Greg. His only friend, his only… only anything, of any particular note. He began to put the dishes and cutlery away before joining Greg again.

He sat down with him on the settee. “Do you make any New Year’s resolutions?” Greg asked him.

“Only to exercise more,” Mycroft said, thinking of Sherlock’s earlier comments. “And yourself?”

“Try not to lose my temper so much. I’ve got a young team, they could probably do with me being a bit more chilled out.”

Mycroft smiled. “I think that’s far harder to accomplish than simply using a treadmill more regularly.”

“Yeah, maybe,” Greg said. He looked at him. “Not that you need to work out.” Mycroft raised his eyebrows. “What?” Greg asked. “I can’t compliment you now?”

“Temper, Greg,” Mycroft murmured, beginning to smile.

Greg laughed, it lighting his whole face, as he swatted Mycroft on the arm. “You’re a git.”

Mycroft laughed and leaned back in the chair. He turned his head to look at Greg, who was grinning at him. And his pupils… and his cheeks… and his pupils… Oh good Lord. Mycroft’s heart began to race. The attraction, that goddamn attraction, should not have still been there in Greg’s eyes. And that he could see it so clearly…

Greg looked at his watch. “I better get home.”

Mycroft nodded. “Yes, of course.”

“Thank you for dinner, I really enjoyed it.”

They both stood up. Mycroft held his hand out and Greg shook it. Mycroft covered Greg’s hand with his left, his fingers finding his pulse. Far faster than it should have been. If Greg was still attracted to him, then what on earth was the state of his marriage? “If you ever need to discuss anything, I am always available,” Mycroft told him.

Greg looked at him and nodded. “Me too. Hey, Mycroft?”

“Yes?”

“You’re not going out in the field anymore, right?”

“No.”

Greg nodded. “I know I haven’t got any right to ask you not to. But I’d worry about you if you were.”

Mycroft smiled. “I assure you, I am desk-bound, and intend to be for the rest of my career.”

Greg smiled back, teeth and sparkling eyes. “Good. Or I’ll come and chain you to it instead.” His smile fell in an instant.

Mycroft let go of his hand. “Right, well, have a good rest of your week,” Mycroft said.

“You too,” Greg said, collecting the books and walking briskly to the door. “Don’t be a stranger.”

“Likewise.”

Mycroft watched as he went. The door closed. Mycroft raised his eyebrows and sunk down onto the chair, occupying Greg’s former place. Well. That was… unexpected. He bit his lip. Unexpected and unwanted. And just when he thought they were becoming friends again…


	44. Armour

**January 2009.**

Avoiding Greg was easy, as it turned out. Greg never text him to arrange to have a meal or a drink. Mycroft allowed Anthea to keep an eye on Sherlock’s whereabouts and activities, and she was keeping an eye on Greg in the process.

He thought about him. Every night, he’d lie awake in bed and think of his arms around him. He’d remember Greg’s dilated pupils, and what it meant. He thought about the relationship they couldn’t have, the physical contact he longed for.

Sometimes, when working out a difficult problem, he’d have a conversation in his head and he would have it with Greg. He found it useful. In his mind, Greg asked him the obvious questions but it made him think more clearly.

He was haunted by his feelings. He’d fought them for so long, in an endless battle he couldn’t hope to win. They’d almost become a companion for him now. That warmth in his chest when he thought of him. The affection in his heart when he pictured his face.

He smiled less when Greg wasn’t around. He would look at his face in the mirror, and he would see dark circles under his eyes and how every small wrinkle came from endless frowns, not delighted smiles.

He heard it once, when he walked into the office. Someone called him the Ice Man. He’d sat down at his desk and considered it for the entire day. He’d always known he could be cold, but he wasn’t sure when he had turned to ice. In the end, he embraced it. Better that they fear him than find comfort in his company.

A man could broker power that way, through steel and ice. There was no success to be found in kindness and warm gestures.

And when he bought new suits and put on his armour for the morning, he felt taller. He walked into every office with his head up, his expression intentionally cool and scathing.

“You look different somehow,” Anthea told him one day. “I don’t know what it is.”

He put a shield up around his heart. He forged it himself, over the month, fighting memories of Greg the whole time.

He was nothing but a weakness. And like all weaknesses, it could be exploited. And Mycroft wouldn’t allow that, not any more.

When he looked in the mirror in the morning, he saw a man ready for war. A man accumulating knowledge and power. And he knew he could have it. He could have whatever he wanted.

But when he got home in the early hours, and stripped off his tie and unlaced his shoes, he saw a battle-weary man. And in those quiet moments, before he went to sleep, he couldn’t escape the soft sounds of Greg’s voice, the memory of the tenderness of his touch. As he wrapped a hand around his cock in a desperate effort to get some sleep, he only pictured Greg in a myriad of ways and positions.

Another day, another battle. He won it, always, during the waking hours. But no matter how he avoided Greg, chasing his feelings away proved to be a constant struggle.

* * *

**February 2009.**

**Location: 10 Downing Street, London.**

Ruth Barker of GCHQ was already there, looking very much a woman who meant business. Mycroft shook her hand. “We appear to be the first people here,” he remarked, picking up the briefing notes from the centre of the table.

“I’m sure that was intentional on your part.”

“I’m sure it was on yours too,” Mycroft replied, pulling a seat out for her.

She smiled as she sat down. “You’re very old school," she said as he tucked it in for her.

“Then may I pour you a glass of water?”

She laughed. “You may. How are you?” Mycroft poured them each a glass from the jug.

“Well,” he said. He took a seat beside her and read the top of the paper. “The role of GCHQ in the next 12 months,” he said, reading the title.

“And in what capacity are you working in today?” she asked.

“I oversee the Intelligence and Security Committee of Parliament.”

Ruth laughed, shaking her head. “Oh for goodness sake, of course you do.”

“I have been for quite a while.”

“I wasn’t aware.”

Mycroft nodded. “That’s because the previous Prime Minister invented the job. It was all rather… unofficially done. Let’s just say our current Prime Minister would not have invited me to this meeting otherwise.”

“Just give him what he wants,” she said. “He’s easy once you get him on-side. Our work is going very well with the NSA, by the way. You and I should go for dinner some time.”

“Dinner.”

“Yes. My place. I’ll cook. Well, I won’t cook, I’ll have my husband cook, but you and I have a lot to discuss.”

Mycroft nodded. “Then we will have a conversation,” he agreed. The both stood as the State Secretary and Prime Minister walked in. The Prime Minister eyed Mycroft, his eyes narrowing. “Mr Prime Minister,” Mycroft murmured.

“Mr Holmes,” he replied coolly. “Ms Barker.”

Ruth smiled. “How are the children?” she asked.

“Fine. Thank you.” Some members of the Joint Intelligence Committee walked in, taking their seats too. Pleasantries were exchanged. Offers of tea and coffee and biscuits made.

“Great Britain is hosting a G20 meeting later this year,” the Prime Minister said, dunking his biscuit in his tea. “We all want to deal with this sodding banking crisis. Let’s get it wrapped up quickly and efficiently.”

Mycroft watched out of the corner of his eye as Ruth pulled her briefing notes towards her, flicking through the pages. She tapped one manicured finger down on the page and Mycroft tilted his head to read what she was pointing to.

 _What more can GCHQ do to improve the British Government’s relations with other countries_? it said. Mycroft licked his lips. Well then. He had been right. The Government wanted to spy on other Governments.

“We need to know who’s talking to who,” the Prime Minister continued. “These delegates come to this country, and they all say they have one ambition: to fix the banking crisis. But underneath all of that, they’re all sneaking about and plotting and our ambition never comes off. For too many years in this country, we have sat and waited for others to take a lead. But not any more. We need to know what these diplomats are saying to one another. We need… access. And Ruth Barker, I believe you know how to get it for us.”

Ruth smiled, lifting her water to her lips, leaving a slight lipstick stain on the rim. “Oh, I can get you whatever you want,” she said. “Mr Holmes. I don’t think you’re going to like what I’m about to say.”

Mycroft paused, surprised to be addressed so directly by her. He frowned and turned to her, holding her eyes. “As our Prime Minister so… accurately puts it… we need to do what we can for the good of our nation,” he replied evenly. “I may raise a few pertinent points, but I will approve whatever measures you feel are… necessary.” Mycroft glanced at the Prime Minister. “Perhaps we can come to some arrangement that allows us to work better together in the future.”

“Then you won’t be a block in these plans?” the Prime Minister asked.

“On the contrary,” Mycroft said. “Allow me to assist where I can. Now please, Ms Barker, do fill us in.”

She smiled. “Ever since you approached me, Mr Prime Minister, I have been working out what we can do, not just on our own but with our partners at the NSA. We can intercept the phone calls made by those foreign diplomats on British soil. And we can read their emails at the same time they do. We’re going to set up some internet cafes in prime locations near where meetings are taking place. We’re going to read their emails, their web browsing history. We’re going to know everything they’re reading at the same time they are reading it.”

“And we can use this to get an advantage at the meetings,” the Prime Minister said. “And thus, we can meet all our aims.”

“We will have around 40 analysts who will monitor who is talking to whom, 24 hours a day. They can get around the security on the delegates’ Blackberry phones. The NSA will work with us to give us what they have too. And we can tip off ministers within minutes of receiving the information. We can provide real-time information to you.”

The Prime Minister began to smile. “Ms Barker. I think you may be my new favourite person.”

The conversation lasted a few more hours while the plan was discussed in some detail. Mycroft stayed behind as everyone left, until he and Ruth were the only people left. “Make me one of your analysts,” he said. “I want every piece of that real-time data coming through to me.”

She laughed and shook her head. “You’re so predictable,” she said. “I knew all of this ‘everyone needs privacy’ thing was all an act. Of course you can. I’ll have someone set it up for you at your office tomorrow. It’s all yours, Mycroft. Every phone call and email from every foreign dignitary at your fingertips. Isn’t that power?” she asked with a satisfied smile.

Mycroft nodded and watched her leave before collecting his files and tucking them away into his briefcase. He called Anthea as he left. “We’re going to be included in the system,” he told her. “They did exactly what I knew they were going to do. Get our computer expert working on it right away. When they install our access tomorrow, I want a way to lock them out of their own system.”

“We’re already working on it,” Anthea told him. “Don’t worry. No one will have more access than you do.”

Mycroft nodded and hung up.

* * *

**March 2009.**

**Location: Ruth Barker’s apartment, London.**

Ruth Barker was nothing if not persistent when it came to inviting him to dinner. Mycroft took a seat at the table of her Thames-side flat, looking out of the window at a boat as it passed by. “Impressive,” he said.

She smiled as she took a seat opposite, putting their plates of lamb and vegetables down. “Old money on my husband’s side, and success on mine,” she said. “Please, tuck in.”

Mycroft smiled but waited for her to have the first bite before he too began to eat.

“Things are moving quickly,” she said, sipping her wine. “Very quickly. The NSA will give us around £22million this year to effectively do its dirty work for them. The Prime Minister has just granted us permission to spy on foreign diplomats. Suddenly we have more power than we could have ever dreamed of.”

“You do enjoy your power.”

“We need to master the internet,” she told him. “This is about terrorists. This is about those who would like to come here and destroy everything we’ve built. It’s about war.”

“War always has casualties. Talk to me about your background.”

She laughed. “My background?”

“What brought you to here?”

“A good education, a bit of luck. I was good at computers. And I’m good at managing people.”

“You’re good at getting ahead,” Mycroft said. “I’ve been working on a problem for the past few months. I'd like your opinion. A hypothetical terrorist organisation has plans to blow up an aeroplane. And through various methods, we find out about it. But this is, surely, just the tip of the iceberg. And if we get in the way of their plans then they will find another way to drive their operation underground, making them more or less invisible.”

“The Coventry Conundrum,” Ruth said with a smile. “Hugh Seagroves may have mentioned it to me recently.”

“Hugh is as leaky as a colander,” Mycroft muttered.

Ruth laughed. “We can always hope we can follow the terrorists wherever they go, even if they are driven deeper underground as we scupper their plans. GCHQ is being given more powers, perhaps Nadia Swift and Hugh can do likewise to get more powers for MI5 and SIS.”

“And if we can’t follow them?”

“How many people are you prepared sacrifice for the sake of information?” she asked. “How many people fit on a large aeroplane?”

“150 to 200, perhaps, on average.”

“That’s a lot of dead people,” she said.

Mycroft glanced up at her and nodded. “Yes,” he murmured, sitting back in his chair, frowning. “Yes, that is a lot of dead people.”

* * *

He mulled it over all night at his home, sitting by the window with a glass of wine in one hand. He tapped his fingers against the arm of the chair and he hadn’t realised how long he was sat there until the sun began to rise. He went to Vauxhall Cross after that, to see Hugh Seagroves at MI6, all but barging into his office.

“I’ve found a solution to our conundrum,” Mycroft told him. “Dead people.”

Hugh Seagroves looked up from his desk. “Er. Morning, Mycroft,” he muttered. “Is everything okay?”

“Fill an aeroplane with dead people. Let it fly and watch it explode. The terrorists are pleased… but nobody dies.” Mycroft began to smile. “They’re already dead.”

Hugh stared at him, his mouth twitching. “I can’t tell if you’re… I mean you… Holy… you’re actually serious.”

“I’m incredibly serious.”

“Fill a ‘plane with dead people.”

Mycroft nodded. “What do you think?”

“I think you’re bloody mental. I think… I think this is… barmy. I think it’s… possibly the most ridiculous and most genius thing you’ve ever come up with.”

“I haven’t thought through the details, of course.”

“’Planes that size though… I mean, they all have captains.”

“Then we need to turn an aeroplane into a drone.”

“Jesus,” Hugh muttered. “Do you really think it’s possible?”

Mycroft sunk into the chair opposite. “I don’t know,” he admitted. “I’ve been thinking about it for 12 hours and I… I’m no closer to knowing if it’s even feasible.”

“We should put a team together. A specialist operation to see what we can do.”

“Several operations. I want three separate teams with no one knowing what the other is doing. One working on drones, the other on sourcing the bodies and a third to put a plan into action, when it gets to that stage.”

“All well and good but… we haven’t got the money to finance this. The Government’s cutting our expenditure as it is.”

“Work with the Germans,” Mycroft said. “Or the French. Whoever you think may be… amicable.”

“I’ll test the waters with the Germans first.” Hugh frowned at him. “Well, it’s a thought, Mycroft,” he murmured. “It’s definitely a thought.”

* * *

**April 2009.**

**Location: Coeur de Lion Offices, Mayfair, London.**

The incident came during a quiet month in which plans were coming together. He didn’t see it coming. Not the sudden red alert from Watchtower. In fact, a red alert had been so rare that for a moment, he wasn’t even sure what the noise coming from his laptop was.

He clicked on the icon, and then zoomed in on the map. Dombey Street. Sherlock’s address. He swallowed, his heart pounding as he grabbed his coat. Anthea marched into his office. “Dombey-”

“-I know,” he cut her off, grabbing his umbrella. “Find out what it was.”

He jogged down the stairs and out of the building, sliding into the car. “Dombey Street. Now!” he demanded, taking a deep breath as he stared out of the window. He dialled Sherlock’s number, glaring at his phone when it went to voicemail. He tapped his finger impatiently against the back of his phone, taking a few breaths as the fear began to grip him.

He glanced at his phone when it beeped. An explosion in Dombey Street, Anthea confirmed. Not a coincidence. Why would anyone target an insignificant London street like Dombey Street, except to be after Sherlock? A weakness. Sherlock was a weakness. A weakness he should have known would be exploited eventually.

The car pulled into the street and Mycroft caught sight of Sherlock on the pavement, stood beside Greg Lestrade. He closed his eyes for a brief moment, letting out a relieved sigh. “Stop here,” he said.

He glanced outside, to where two houses had once stood. The explosion and now the flames had engulfed them. There was a body bag on the pavement, and other people were being treated for injuries.

He stepped out of the car, exuding a serenity and calmness he still didn’t quite feel. He met Sherlock’s eyes, but his brother just huffed.

“Good evening,” Mycroft said. “I’m glad to see you’re safe, Sherlock.”

“Any ideas?” Greg asked.

Terrorists, gas leaks, MORnetwork… “A few,” Mycroft replied. He could feel the heat from the fire, smell the smoke, knowing the scent was already beginning to cling to his clothes. “Sherlock. I have a spare room, you are welcome to it.”

“I am not staying at yours,” Sherlock snapped.

Mycroft frowned. “Why not?”

“Because I’m not staying anywhere near you.”

Mycroft let out an exasperated sigh. “Then what do you suggest? I am not paying for you to have a hotel.” Not after the last time he paid for Sherlock to stay in a hotel and he gave out the alcohol to strangers…

“I’m staying with Lestrade,” Sherlock announced.

“You’re doing what?” Greg asked.

“Staying at your flat for one night.”

“Sherlock, I’m sure Greg would prefer not to spend the night putting up with you,” Mycroft told him.

“No need to get jealous, Mycroft,” Sherlock sneered.

“I was merely looking out for the Inspector’s sanity,” Mycroft replied. Jealous of Sherlock? Pigs would sprout wings first…

“This isn’t the MORnetwork is it?” Greg asked him.

“I don’t know,” Mycroft admitted. The thought had crossed his mind. It was possible they wanted to target him through Sherlock…

“I hate it when you say you don’t know.”

“I know. As do I.”

Greg frowned. “Just tell me if you can, yeah?”

“Of course,” Mycroft said. He studied Greg for a moment. He’d tried so hard to avoid him for three months, and here they were again, drawn together because of another catastrophe. “Very well,” he finally said. “Since Sherlock is safe, I have no business being here getting in everyone’s way.”

“I’ll text you when Sherlock’s driving me mad,” Greg replied with a grin.

Mycroft smiled a bit. “Do,” he said. “Good evening, Greg. Sherlock.” He wandered back to the car and sat down, checking his phone.

He got back into the office and watched from the back of the room while his team worked to find any terrorist links to the explosion. He sighed and walked back into his office and sunk down into his chair. He frowned as he checked his emails.

 _No coincidence_ , one anonymous email said. Mycroft frowned and clicked on the hyperlinks. They all linked to newspaper stories, for Hadrian Kirkcudbright’s death, for the break in at the National Archives, for the break-in and shooting at Dimitri Grasty’s jewellery store.

Mycroft swallowed and got his staff working on tracing the email immediately. He stayed at work until the early hours of the morning, until he felt almost nauseous from a lack of sleep. They confirmed it was an Improvised Explosive Device. It looked as though it came from Sherlock’s flat.

Thirteen people had died, and it should have weighed heavy on his conscience. He’d failed in hunting down this terrorist organisation, the MORnetwork, and he’d got side-tracked, worrying about filling aeroplanes with dead bodies and tracking every piece of security data for himself.

But he didn’t feel it. He didn’t feel the loss and devastation. He didn’t feel the heartbreak the families of those 13 people would feel. They were just people, wrong place, wrong time, and all that mattered to him was that Sherlock was alive.

He stared out of the window, a mug of hot milk and honey in his hands. He didn’t like the reflection of the cold, detached man staring back at him.

* * *

**May 2009.**

**Location: New Scotland Yard, London.**

He travelled to New Scotland Yard first thing in the morning, not long after he knew Greg would have arrived. He headed straight for Greg’s office, and Greg waved his hand at him through the glass.

Mycroft sighed as he stepped inside. “Good morning,” he murmured, taking a seat.

“What’s up?” Greg asked.

“We’re investigating the explosion,” he said.

Greg nodded. “Thought that might be the case. What do you need?”

“Need?” Mycroft asked.

“From me.”

“Everything you’ve have,” Mycroft said.

“Not much to be honest,” Greg told him, typing on his keyboard. “We were just there to control the scene. I think your guys got in there before we did. Yeah, we’ve got a couple of reports, a few witness statements. Was it an IED?”

“Yes,” Mycroft said.

“Was it in Sherlock’s flat?” Greg asked.

Mycroft nodded.

“MORnetwork?”

“Possibly operating under another name,” Mycroft said. “Or no name at all. We received some anonymous correspondence claiming responsibility. They said they were also responsible for Kirckudbright, the National Archives and the jewellery shop. Very few people know those are in anyway linked.”

“But Rickard Luck is dead. The weapons guy.”

Mycroft frowned. “I’m not entirely sure I’m the target.”

“Who is?”

“Sherlock.”

“What? Why?”

“I don’t know,” Mycroft said softly.

Greg sat back in his chair. “Is there anything I can do?”

“I doubt it.”

“Filling me with confidence here then.”

Mycroft glanced down at the desk. “I’m sorry.” Here they went again, walking into the fire, letting the flames engulf them, letting the terrorists win… God, how did this look to Greg? Like he was incompetent, incapable, weak and pathetic. So much for being in charge and control of everything.

“No, hey, it’s fine,” Greg told him. “I don’t blame you. I know you’re doing everything you can. I just wish I could help.”

Mycroft nodded. “I can only promise to tell you if there is anything you can do.”

Greg sighed. “Then that’s alright with me.”

“Thank you.” Mycroft stood up and collected the papers from the printer. “Thank you for these.”

“If I get anything else, I’ll tell you.”

Mycroft frowned. He had to put a shield around his heart, and be a man made of ice and steel. “It’s out of your hands, Detective Inspector.”

Greg glanced up at him. “Course it is. _Mr Holmes_. What’s the problem?”

“This is not your fight.”

Greg narrowed his eyes. “Yeah. Getting that. Just like looking after your brother isn’t my responsibility. But I’m doing it anyway.”

“Greg,” Mycroft warned.

“Don’t. I’m keeping an eye out for Sherlock whether you like it or not. Don’t try to push me out. You don’t need to tell me anything. Hell, I’m used to that. But don’t tell me it’s out of my hands. You and I both know that’s not true.”

Mycroft pressed his lips together. “You’re stubborn.”

“I know. Don’t tell me that bothers you. Because I know better on that score too.”

Mycroft frowned. Damn him to the very depths of hell for caring so much. “Very well. I shall inform you if I come across anything you need to know.”

“You do that,” Greg said. “And Mycroft?”

“Mm?”

“Thanks for coming and getting these reports yourself. I always appreciate it.”

“Where is Sherlock looking to live?” Mycroft asked him.

Greg shrugged. “Places I don’t think he can afford without a roommate.”

Mycroft raised his eyebrows. “I don’t imagine that would go very well.”

“Neither do I. It’d take a special sort of person to put up with him.”

Mycroft nodded. “Quite. Thank you once again for these. Have a nice day.”

“You too,” Greg said.

Mycroft walked out, flicking through the papers as he went. He slid into the car and slammed the door behind him.

And as he did his work, an image came to mind. Sherlock and Greg. Stood together on the pavement, while a building was alight behind them. They were his weaknesses. They were the centre to which everything else in his world revolved. And he couldn’t stop how he cared about Sherlock, not with their family ties.

And Greg… oh how he longed to forget Greg. But no matter how he’d tried, he hadn’t been successful.

He worked longer hours and found it easier to forget then. He fell asleep more quickly, out of utter exhaustion. He began to work on weekends, seeking refuge in Government plots and secrets.

He began to weave his web, meeting politicians from every political party for dinners, learning their weaknesses, their enemies, their plans. He made himself invaluable. And with every hour he worked, he saw the lines on his face deepen. He saw his eyes get colder.

And one day, while out in Saville Row, he caught sight of himself in a reflection. He hardly recognised his own intimidating stance. Tightening his grip on the handle of his umbrella, he continued his walk down the street, watching people scuttle past him.

The Ice Man.

Yes, he supposed, he could live with that.


	45. Isolation

**January 1985.**

**Location: The Holmes cottage, Gloucestershire.**

_“You watch him!” Sherlock demanded, prodding Mycroft in the stomach. He looked back over his shoulder at Redbeard, who lay on his belly on the floor, occasionally flicking his tail up, a little listlessly. Sherlock frowned, a pout on his lips as he turned back to Mycroft. “Say it.”_

_“I’ll watch him,” Mycroft promised._

_“Sherlock!” their father called. “It’s time to go.”_

_“Watch him,” Sherlock said again, bending down and hugging Redbeard round the neck before running out of the room, ready to look around his new school and spend a few nights there._

_Mycroft sighed and slumped down in the sofa, frowning across at the dog. He hadn’t moved in several hours. He just lay there, like some defeated creature._ He’s dying _, Mycroft thought, studying him. He was awaiting his death, pain-free, but only because of the drugs they’d given him._

_They’d never got on, him and that dog. Redbeard had come along three years before Sherlock was born, when Mycroft was four-years-old. He was a good-natured dog, friendly with other animals and children, but Mycroft had never got close to him. Not like Sherlock had done. He wasn’t called Redbeard in those days. He was called Churchill. But at four-years-old, Sherlock had demanded he was no longer called William and Churchill was now to be called Redbeard._

_As they did with most of Sherlock’s demands, his family obeyed._

_No, he was very much Sherlock’s dog now, but it was almost as though Sherlock hadn’t even noticed he was going to die. As though he hadn’t even registered it as a possibility._

_The move from Oak Manor to the cottage had been stressful for him, Mycroft thought, getting up and taking a seat beside him on the floor. Redbeard looked up at him with sorrowful brown eyes and lifted his head before dropping it onto Mycroft’s lap._

_He sighed, running his fingers through his fur on the back of his neck. “I know, boy,” he said quietly, stroking his head. He leaned against the chair as he stroked his soft fur. He tilted his head back, listening to the birds outside the window. There were no other sounds. Just his breathing and Redbeard’s breathing. Nothing else in this empty home in the middle of nowhere._

_This was to be their home now, away from Oak Manor with its hidden corners under the eaves, and acres of garden. There was room to run away there, to hide away with a book. Not here. Not in this cottage, with its creaking floors and cold walls. In this small cottage, Mycroft was forced to be in closer confines with his family, and it made him uncomfortable._

_He closed his eyes for a moment, and let out a long breath. And there was silence. He frowned and looked down at Redbeard and down to his chest. It wasn’t moving. His head was heavy in Mycroft’s lap._

_He pressed his lips together, forcing down the surprising flood of emotion he felt towards a dog he hadn’t even liked. He lay with him for an hour, as his body got cold. His parents found him there._

_He helped his father with filling the hole and sprinkling seeds on top of the soil._  

* * *

_It was three days later when Sherlock arrived home. Mycroft stood in the living room, frowning, poised, waiting, bracing himself. The front door closed. There was a long pause. And then Sherlock barged into the living room, flinging the door open, it slamming into the wall._

_“You!” Sherlock snarled, running towards him. He kicked Mycroft in the shin, before swinging his arms wildly, slapping at him, some making contact, some not, and all the time he raged and shouted “You, you, you, you!” until their father hauled him off, his legs and arms still flailing wildly._

_Mycroft just stood. He crossed his arms across his chest and bit his lip so hard he thought he might leave the imprint of his teeth in it._

_Sherlock was carried upstairs, and Mycroft could hear their mother talking to him._

_He glanced up as his father walked back into the room. “I want to let you know…” He started with a sigh. “We told him Redbeard was in a lot of pain and had to be put down. I don’t think he’d have liked that he died in your arms."_

_Mycroft shook his head and cradled his book to his chest. He watched as his father began to shift furniture about. His father’s coping method. He’d move the furniture and the books and fluff the cushions while his wife dealt with Sherlock’s temper._

_“Up you get,” he said, his voice soft, and Mycroft hauled himself out of the chair, waiting while his father shifted the chair slightly to the left. Satisfied, he let Mycroft sit back down again. Mycroft opened his book, vaguely aware of his father sitting down by the newspapers, deciding which could be thrown away. “He didn’t like it,” his father finally said. “School. The boys were… cruel, I think. Remember what I told you, Mycroft. You need to study people. You can tell a lot about them just by looking.”_

_Mycroft nodded solemnly and studied his father for a moment. “You gardened first thing this morning. You have dirt under your fingernails. You tried to clean it out, but you were in a rush, so you only got round to doing your left hand. But you began to clean… so you’re a tidy person.”_

_His father stood up. “You can do this, Mycroft. You can learn to get on with other children.”_

_Mycroft nodded and bit his lip. He returned to his book._

* * *

**June 2009.**

**Location: Whitehall, London.**

Mycroft flicked his eyes up to the door when Sherlock barged in, his eyes blazing with fury. He dropped a handful of envelopes down on Mycroft’s desk. Mycroft pursed his lips for a moment before reaching for one of them. Despite Sherlock’s obvious impatience, he picked up his letter opener, cutting through the paper slowly and purposefully.

“For God’s sake,” Sherlock muttered as Mycroft pulled the paper out.

Mycroft raised his eyebrows as he glanced down at the bank statement. “What do you want?” he asked.

“Money," Sherlock said. 

“You have money.”

“Not enough for my flat.”

Mycroft shook his head. “You live within your means, Sherlock. I am not going to fund you for the rest of your life. You’re old enough to-”

“-Don’t tell me to get a job. I have a job.”

Mycroft scoffed. “It’s hardly a job. You could be very useful to people, Sherlock. You could invest your skills in other, more valuable, ventures.”

“Like MI5.”

Mycroft nodded slowly. “Yes, like MI5. Or MI6. Or the CIA. I’m sure your… talents could be used to their full potential there.”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. “It doesn’t interest me.”

“You like puzzles. You like… figuring things out. Why would this be any different from what you do for the police?”

“I don’t trust you. You’re not looking out for my best interests, you just want me where you can keep an eye on me.”

Mycroft shrugged. “I keep an eye on you anyway. Two, when I can spare them. Lord knows, you need it.”

“Just give me the money I need and then you don’t need to keep an eye on me.”

Mycroft raised his eyebrows. “You need to make something of your life, Sherlock.”

“I don’t have any interest in being a part of this elaborate machine you’re trying to build. Is there any part of this country’s operation you don’t have your fingers in?”

“What does that matter?” Mycroft asked. “No one else can see the full picture.”

“What matters more to you, Mycroft? Protecting the nation or accumulating power?”

“I should have thought that would be obvious.”

Sherlock frowned, collecting his bank statements up from the desk. “It was obvious once,” he muttered. “But now? I think you’d watch London burn if it meant you would have more power. I note that you’re not chasing after the terrorists who blew up my flat. Time was, you’d stop at nothing to track them down. But you’re unfocused. You’re too busy… being in charge and wasting your time with pathetic politicians.”

“Then stop working against me and help me.”

“I’m not interested.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re smearing your fingers over everything. I can’t pick up a newspaper without seeing your influence. You always think you’re right…”

“I am always right,” Mycroft replied.

Sherlock shook his head. “You can’t win everything. One day, you’re going to slip up. And I won’t feel any sympathy for you when it happens.”

Mycroft pressed his lips together but didn’t say a word as Sherlock turned and left the room.

* * *

**January 1985.**

**Location: Marlborough College, Wiltshire.**

_Mycroft shuffled his feet as he stared up at the red-brick building, waiting as his father hauled a suitcase out of the boot of the car. They stood still together for a moment before his father began to walk up the stairs towards the black door. He opened it and smiled at the receptionist, Mycroft stood behind him, his hands clasped together behind his back._

_They filled in forms and signed papers, and soon Mycroft was being marched away from his father and towards the dorms. He was shown to a room with two beds, both unoccupied. “We may have another boy join us later in the term,” the housemaster explained. “But for now, this is all yours.”_

_Mycroft smiled a little too gratefully. “Thank you,” he said quietly._

_“Lessons begin tomorrow,” the housemaster said. “Your timetable and everything you need is already on your desk. Dinner is at 5.30.” And then he shut the door, leaving Mycroft standing in the centre of the room._

_He glanced around at the bare walls and the plain white sheets on the two beds. He chose the one by the window and began to unpack his clothes._

_‘Going to a school with other children will be for the best,’ his parents had said. Mycroft had argued against it until he was too worn out to argue any more. And he hadn’t been given a choice. He was here now, until he was 18. He would be able to go home on weekends. Well, what home there was, because he still despised the cottage in Gloucestershire._

_He unpacked his books and stared out of the window to where a boy ran around the running track. He stayed there, hauled up in his room, until 5.15pm, when he left to find the dining hall._

_He was overwhelmed by the noise and the chatter. Too many children. He bit down hard on his lip as he collected his tray and his food. He found a table in the corner and he ate in silence, focusing only on his food and not the noise around him. He didn’t stay once he had finished his food. He put his tray away and hurried back up to his room where he remained until the morning._

* * *

**June 2009.**

**Location: Paris, France.**

They’d laughed. All of them. They’d laughed at him. Mycroft frowned as he sipped his coffee, staring out across to the Eiffel Tower from the balcony.

He glanced up as Anthea took a step out beside him. “Are you okay?” she asked.

“Apparently filling an aeroplane with dead bodies in order to prevent a successful terrorist attack is a laughable idea,” Mycroft murmured. He sighed and leaned against the wall. “Perhaps it is,” he conceded.

“Hugh likes the idea. The Germans may get on board.”

Mycroft shook his head. “The Germans laughed too. They may go along with it, but not unless we start forming the plan to give them something concrete to jump onto. They won’t get involved in the preliminary stages.”

Anthea shrugged and sunk into one of the chairs. “Arnou’s buying this flat,” she said after a few minutes. “He made a huge commission on a sculpture. He’s buying this place.”

Mycroft nodded and drank his coffee.

“I think with a bit of redecoration, it will make a nice holiday home,” she continued. “It makes Arnou feel more at home.”

“Anthea,” Mycroft murmured. “I’m not… Now is not the time.”

She frowned at him. “Personal lives are out of bounds now, are they?” she asked. “Now you’ve decided my husband isn’t a threat anymore, you won’t talk to me about anything important?”

“Our work is important.”

“There’s more to life than the work.”

Mycroft shook his head. “There’s not,” he said. Not for him, at least.

“There could have been. If you’d only-”

“-If you end that sentence with the words Detective Inspector Lestrade, I will have you fired,” Mycroft snapped.

Anthea stared at him for a moment before getting up and marching back into the flat. He remained stoic, looking out towards the Eiffel Tower. He sighed after a few moments, sinking down into the chair, flattening down his hair with his fingertips.

He heard footsteps from behind him as Anthea walked back out. “It’s Sherlock,” she said. “He’s been talking to drug dealers.”

Mycroft sighed. “For goodness sake.”

“Mycroft.” Anthea paused for a second. “It was a few days ago.”

Mycroft stared at her. “It was when?” he asked in disbelief.

“There’s a new person on Sherlock’s security detail. He didn’t realise he had to report it.”

“How the hell did he…” Mycroft took a deep breath. “Never mind.”

Anthea nodded and left him alone with his thoughts. With a frustrated sigh, Mycroft called Greg and asked him to look after Sherlock. “He was spotted by one of the members of my security team in discussions with a drug dealer,” Mycroft informed him.

Greg sighed. “Bloody hell. Right. Okay, no worries, I’ll check on him.”

“I would do it myself, but I’m in France.”

“No, you’re good, don’t worry. When was he spotted?”

“Earlier this week.”

“Earlier this week?” Greg repeated.

“Yes, I imagine he has been having quite a binge.”

“You need to tell me when it happens, Mycroft,” Greg said. “Not just let me pick up the pieces afterwards.”

“I was not aware until five minutes ago.”

“Right. Yeah, of course, sorry. I’m just angry at him.”

Mycroft nodded to himself. “I know. He may require some assistance over the next few days while the drugs leave his system.”

Greg sighed. “Sure. I’ve done this before. I can deal with it. I’ll keep you updated.”

“That is very much appreciated. My sincere apologies.”

“Well, unlike Sherlock, at least you have the decency to say sorry. I’ll text you.”

“Thank you, Greg,” Mycroft said as he hung up. He slid his phone back into his pocket and clenched his fist.

 

MESSAGES: Greg Lestrade  
1.16pm: Sherlock promised to give  
up the drugs.

 

MESSAGES  
2.47pm: Really? I doubt that. Keep  
two eyes on him anyway. M

 

MESSAGES Greg Lestrade  
2.51pm: You need a bit more faith.

 

MESSAGES  
7.47pm: I know my brother. I don’t  
trust him. M

 

MESSAGES Greg Lestrade  
8.01pm: You should try. You never know.

* * *

**January 1985.**

**Location: Marlborough College, Wiltshire.**

_Mycroft settled in a chair at the back of the classroom, glancing around at the boys in the room. One was a tennis player, he had one arm slightly larger than the other, rough skin on his fingers. One had got into a fight, another had got into the school on a scholarship - his uniform was clearly secondhand and repaired a number of times. Mycroft lay his pen on his desk, glancing up at their teacher._

_Here they were, in mathematics. His least favourite subject. They were discussing equations and Mycroft only half-concentrated. He already knew all of this. Even Sherlock knew all of this. One of the boys in the class had come from woodwork, he still had wood shavings on his clothes…_

_It was too much. Too much knowledge, too many people. He stared down at his desk instead, grateful for the moment when the teacher gave them their books to finally do some work._

_He rattled through the questions they had been set before putting his pen down on his desk. He sat with his hands on the table, looking ahead at the teacher. The man glanced up, and narrowed his eyes. “Do your work,” he said._

_“I’ve finished, sir,” Mycroft mumbled._

_“Speak up!”_

_“I’ve finished, sir,” he repeated, a few boys craning their necks to look at him and frown._

_The teacher frowned at him too and pushed back in his chair. “Has anyone else finished?” he demanded, to a chorus of ‘no, sir’, ‘no, sir’. He stormed to the back of the room, grabbing Mycroft’s book. He stood with it for 30 seconds before dropping it back onto Mycroft’s desk. “Well, we have a modern-day Diophantus in our midst. Do you know who Diophantus was?”_

_Mycroft paused for a moment, not sure if it was a rhetorical question._

_“You answer ‘yes, sir’ or ‘no, sir’.”_

_“Yes, sir,” Mycroft finally said._

_“Who was he then?”_

_“He was an Alexandrian mathematician. He wrote… Arithmetica. And he continued the tradition of equations.”_

_The teacher frowned at him for a moment before nodding. “Well, then,” he said. “Turn to the next page and do those questions too.”_

_Mycroft nodded. “Yes, sir.”_

_“Show off,” one of the boys whispered from his left. Mycroft didn’t look up from his work. He completed the questions in silence, taking his time so as to avoid making another scene._

_He preferred history. He enjoyed Latin. He despised physics, but he did like biology. He dreaded physical education. Running in the rain, trying to avoid being tackled in rugby... it was horrendous. He would stand in the showers afterwards, washing the mud from his face, trying not to hear the mocking going on around him. That wasn’t to say it was directed in his direction necessarily, but he was so aware that he could open his mouth and say the wrong thing._

_They didn’t like him, these other children. Mycroft learned that early on. They recognised his intelligence and that he regarded himself to be superior in that department. And worse, he found trying to be nice to them exhausting. He tried. But mostly he failed._

_He would sit in his bedroom, and stare out at the running track. There was a sixth-former who ran at 4.30pm every day. He had dark hair and strong shoulders. When Mycroft had passed him in the corridor once, he realised his eyes were green._

_Wrong, he thought, as he lay on his back at night and tried to drag those thoughts from his brain. He tried to imagine the women the boys in his class liked. Like Michelle Pfeiffer, with her blonde hair and big smile. But it was no use. He only saw the teen with his muscular thighs and strong shoulders._

_And when the boys passed around copies of men’s magazines, Mycroft felt no interest in those women with their breasts and curves. And he’d never been so ashamed of anything in his life._

_There was a boy at his school who had been outed as gay. The others would say he’d give AIDS to anyone who touched him. The boy left school a few months later. Mycroft stayed silent. Better to bury himself in his studies than become a focus of their attention._

* * *

**July 2009.**

**Location: Crusader House, Pall Mall, London.**

Sherlock had moved into a flat in Montague Street with a drug-dealer. Oh, he didn’t stand on street corners delivering the drugs himself. But he was involved in the business in some respects. That was probably why Sherlock found his presence tolerable. If he was willing to give him drugs then Sherlock would consider himself quite at home.

It was no surprise to Mycroft at all. Once an addict, always an addict. Mycroft waited until he knew Sherlock would be at St Bartholomew’s before calling Greg to assist him in removing Sherlock’s roommate.

“What’s up?” Greg asked him as he answered.

“I have a… delicate situation,” Mycroft replied.

“What do you need?”

“A car is on its way to pick you up.”

Greg laughed. “Could have asked first, Mycroft. You know. Say please.”

“Please?” Mycroft asked.

“Do I need to wear a fancy shirt?”

“No,” Mycroft said. “Although, perhaps carry your badge.”

“Can’t,” Greg told him. “I’ve had to request a new one. A certain someone stole mine. Again.”

“Sherlock?” Mycroft asked.

“Who else?”

Mycroft smiled in vague amusement. “The car will arrive in five minutes.”

“Then I’ll see you soon.”

“Thank you,” Mycroft said before hanging up. Mycroft got into his car and told Kamik where to go. He waited for Greg outside the flat, tapping his umbrella against the ground. He glanced up as the car, driven by Max, pulled up along the side of the road.

Greg smiled, his eyes crinkling at the corners, and it struck Mycroft how much greyer his hair seemed now. He tightened his grip on his umbrella handle. Seeing him, just being near him, brought butterflies to his stomach.

“Delicate situation involving Sherlock?” Greg asked, grinning. “I should have known.”

“Actually, it doesn’t involve Sherlock,” Mycroft said, and he couldn’t help but smile in return. “Well, not directly. After you.”

He followed Greg up the stairs, forcing himself not to let his eyes drift down to his backside and down his thighs, framed so beautifully in those jeans he insisted on wearing. Greg waited by the door and Mycroft bent down, retrieving a paperclip from his pocket. He began to pick the lock, listening for the sound of the mechanism… ah. Got it. Greg’s rumble of laughter ran through his body, bringing a small smile to his own lips.

He opened the door. Adam Carlson, drug dealer and drug user, was sprawled across the sofa. He hastily sat up.

“Mr Carlson, I believe?” Mycroft asked, his tone hard.

The man stared at him. “Uh. Yeah. Yeah. Adam. Carlson. Who are you?”

Mycroft took a few steps towards him. He glanced down at the chair opposite, checking for syringes, before taking a seat. He could feel Greg behind him, almost acting as back-up.

“And so you are Sherlock Holmes’ new flatmate,” Mycroft murmured. He studied the small wooden box on the floor, open with packets of cocaine inside. There were dishes, with mould growing on them. “Quite a hideous mess you’ve both made.”

“He’s messy,” Adam Carlson said.

“Quite,” Mycroft agreed.

“Who are you?”

“No concern of yours.” He reached into his pocket, pulling out a chequebook. “How much do I need to pay you to report back to me on Sherlock’s movements?”

Adam stared at him. “What? Why?”

“Because I have an interest in it.” Mycroft took out a pen. “Name your price, Mr Carlson.”

“£500,” Adam blurted out. “A month.”

Mycroft glanced at him and then down at his chequebook. Very well,” he said. He wrote on it and signed it and held the paper out. Adam reached out for it.

“Make one false move,” Mycroft muttered, still holding the paper tightly between his thumb and forefinger. Adam hesitated. “Put one toe over this line.” Mycroft held his umbrella out between them and drew one long invisible line on the carpet between them. He flicked his eyes up to meet Adam’s, narrowing them. “Well. I don’t think we need to go into specifics, do we Mr Carlson? I’m sure your position is perfectly clear to you.”

Adam swallowed. “Not-not really.”

“Mate,” Greg started. “This is the most powerful man you’ve ever met. I’d take the cheque and scarper if I were you.”

Mycroft looked up at him, and their eyes met. He saw undisguised attraction there in Greg’s dark eyes. His lips were parted, just a fraction, his eyes narrowing. They held their gaze for a few moments before Greg bit his lip. Mycroft paused for a brief second, before standing up. He dropped the cheque onto the floor. “I would take my colleague’s advice, Mr Carlson,” Mycroft said. “Cash the cheque. And be gone before Sherlock Holmes returns. Good afternoon.”

Mycroft turned and left, not looking back over his shoulder even as Greg followed after him. He opened the car door and slid in and Greg joined him, slamming the door shut.

“What the hell was that?” Greg asked.

“A test of his trustworthiness,” Mycroft answered. “He failed.”

“And what exactly did you need me for?”

“To demonstrate the level of my trust in you. I allow you to be around Sherlock without hesitation.”

Greg frowned. “You don’t need to prove anything to me. We’ve known each other four years.”

“Nonetheless, I felt a practical demonstration was required.”

Greg laughed and shook his head. “Sometimes I wonder how you and Sherlock are related. Other times, you have social skills as bad as he does.” Mycroft narrowed his eyes. “Don’t get me wrong…” Greg said, holding his hands up. “Don’t get me wrong, you’re miles better than him at being a human being. And unlike him, I think you genuinely like me. And I’m beginning to doubt he actually knows my first name. You don’t need to prove anything to me.”

Mycroft nodded. “I.” He paused, not sure how to respond. “I don’t want you to feel used,” he finally finished. “That I am using you for your cases, for getting Sherlock clean, for… I’m not using you.”

Greg offered him a slow nod. “Yeah, I know,” he replied. “Of course I know that.”

“Do you?”

Greg frowned for a second. “Well, even if you were using me… I never saw it that way.”

“Good.”

“Yeah.” They both looked up as they pulled outside of Greg’s building in Petty France.

“Yourself and Anthea are the two people I trust the most,” Mycroft told him.

Greg stared at him. “Right. Right, that’s good, Mycroft. That’s really good. Look, I need to…”

“Go home,” Mycroft finished for him.

“Yeah,” Greg whispered. He didn’t move. Mycroft frowned at him. “Call me, yeah? We’ll do dinner.”

“Of course,” Mycroft murmured.

Greg rose hastily from the car, slamming the door again. Mycroft watched out of the window, staring back at him. Greg stood there, on the pavement, his hands buried in his pockets, a conflicted expression on his face.

* * *

**November 1986.**

**Location: The Homes Cottage, Gloucestershire.**

_“I know your secret,” Sherlock announced one Sunday afternoon. The smell of roast chicken was wafting up the stairs and into Mycroft’s bedroom._

_“You don’t know anything,” Mycroft muttered._

_“I know you’re gay.”_

_Mycroft glared at him. “I am not gay,” he said through clenched teeth._

_“Gay, gay, gay,” Sherlock repeated, sing-song. “You. Are. Gay, gay, gay.”_

_“I’m not…”_

_“Mycroft! Sherlock! Dinner!” their mother called from downstairs._

_“I’m gonna tell them!” Sherlock announced, turning to run out the room. Mycroft rose from his seat like a shot, grabbing his little brother around his wrist._

_“Don’t you dare tell them anything,” he snarled._

_Sherlock kicked his shin and Mycroft hissed with pain and then shook him, tightening his grip on Sherlock’s wrist. “Don’t you dare.”_

_“Mummy!” Sherlock shouted, and Mycroft let go of him._

_“Boys!” their mother shouted. Sherlock grinned, some triumphant smile that made Mycroft’s blood boil, and then skipped off down the stairs. Mycroft trudged after him and sunk into his chair._

_He ate in silence, glaring across at Sherlock._

_“We’ll drive you to school in an hour,” their father said, dishing up more carrots onto his plate. “You’ll be there in plenty of time before lights out.”_

_Mycroft hummed, and sipped his water._

_“Are you alright?” his father asked._

_“Fine,” Mycroft replied, shooting Sherlock a pointed look._

_“Mycroft has something to tell you,” Sherlock said, smiling triumphantly. “It’s a big secret.”_

_“Sherlock,” Mycroft hissed at him._

_“What is it, dear?” his mother asked._

_Mycroft shook his head. “It’s nothing.”_

_“Mycroft’s gay,” Sherlock announced. “He likes boys.”_

_It felt as though someone had hit the pause button. Everything seemed to slow for a few moments, his father stopping half-way through drinking his tea._

_“You can’t just announce these things on other people’s behalf,” their mother finally said, turning to Sherlock. “It’s rude.”_

_Sherlock pursed his lips. “Father told me to look at people and know things and I know Mycroft’s gay so I’m only telling you what I worked out for myself,” Sherlock persisted. “And he is gay.” Mycroft swallowed and sunk even further into his chair._

_“How do you even know what that is?” their father asked. “You’re nine-years-old.”_

_“I read things,” Sherlock said. “And I read the magazines in Mycroft’s room. He has gay magazines.”_

_“I do not!” Mycroft snapped, slamming his hand against the table._

_“You do! I’ll get them!” Sherlock began to slide off his chair._

_“Sherlock Holmes,” their mother muttered. “You will do no such thing.” Sherlock frowned and sat back down. “You will sit there and eat your dinner in silence. Mycroft. Quite frankly, I don’t mind if you like girls, like boys or like none at all. You will finish your dinner and then your father will take you to school. All I want for both of you is that you will find someone who will make you happy. We are a liberal family, with open minds. You both know my father is homosexual. And your father’s brother, Rudy, is a cross-dresser. You cannot judge people for who they fall in love with or how they live their lives. It’s people’s actions…” Their mother’s voice faltered, then, just a little. “You judge people on their actions. And that is all.”_

_They didn’t say much after that. Mycroft grabbed his backpack and followed his father out to the car._

_“You listen to your mother,” his father said softly as they drove. “She knows best.”_

_“Are you ashamed of me?” Mycroft asked softly._

_“No, Mycroft. This family’s shame has never come from you, nor will it ever come from you.”_

_Mycroft nodded and stayed quiet for the rest of the way._

* * *

**August 2009.**

**Location: Near Trafalgar Square, London.**

Mycroft settled back in his chair as he flicked through his emails on his phone. He glanced up as the car moved just a little, but there was no doubt about it - they were going to be stuck in traffic for a good deal longer.

He sighed and put his phone into his pocket. “What have we got tomorrow?” he asked Anthea.

“A few meetings, but mostly a free day. You have Sylvia Ross at noon, and GCHQ at three o’clock.” Anthea stopped for a second, a frown on her face. Mycroft followed her gaze, turning to look out of the window.

A woman was stood outside a restaurant. She had apricot-coloured hair, large earrings, and high heels. Mycroft frowned. “Is that…”

“Yes, Jane Starnes. Lestrade,” Anthea corrected quickly.

Mycroft paused for a moment, watching as a man left the restaurant, cupping Jane’s cheek and leading her into a soft kiss. Jane looked torn, a sceptical frown on her face, as she pulled away. She began to take a step back, but the man took her hand. The car began to move again, until they were out of sight.

“Watch her,” Mycroft said quietly. He glanced down at his phone, and scrolled through his contacts until he saw Greg’s name there. His heart ached for him. He was sure one text was all it would take, but no. The ship had sailed. It was Greg’s life to live, not his to control. With a sigh, he pocketed his phone and tried to erase the image from his mind. 


	46. Peaceful Interludes

**September 2009.**

**Location: The Coeur de Lion Offices, Mayfair London.**

Jim Braum had taken a the seat on the settee, while Anthea settled for the chair on the other side of Mycroft’s desk. He watched them as they flicked through the pages the Ministry Of Defence had drawn up.

“I don’t know what this is,” Anthea finally said, handing the papers back.

“Jim?” Mycroft asked.

Jim shrugged. “The MOD is working on this?” he asked.

Mycroft nodded. “Jonathan Bruce and Alexander Partington are working on it together.”

“It’s a missile defence system, yeah?”

Mycroft raised his eyebrows. “You got it from the limited amount of information there?” he asked.

Jim laughed. “What, did you think all I was good for was shooting guns?”

“You know that’s not the case,” Mycroft replied. “Thoughts?”

“On what?”

Mycroft shook his head. “Anything,” he replied. “War. Missiles. Defence systems.”

“Where’s it going?” Jim asked.

“We don’t know yet.”

“How many countries have missile defence programmes?” Anthea asked.

“The USA, Russia, France, India and Israel,” Mycroft informed them. “And us, eventually, when these plans are approved. One way or another, I have to make a decision on whether to support the project or not.”

Anthea pursed her lips. “What happens if you don’t?”

“I suspect the Prime Minister will continue to push for these additional deterrents, only without me being able to oversee it.”

“That’s a terrifying thought,” Jim muttered, standing up and dropping the papers on Mycroft’s desk. “You need to oversee it, far as I’m concerned. Anth?”

She nodded. “Yes,” she agreed. “Yes, you do.”

Mycroft looked between them. “Then I actively push the Prime Minister to approve the system,” he said. “That’s what this means.”

Anthea nodded. “You do,” she said. “Because someone needs to keep an eye out.”

Mycroft watched them go and frowned to himself, tracing his fingers against the plans. He’d hoped Jim and Anthea would tell him he was wrong to allow it. He’d hoped they would be some sort of balancer for his own thoughts. As much as he didn’t want to admit it, Sherlock had struck a nerve when he said Mycroft was only interested in power. He had hoped they would argue against him. But they didn’t. They trusted him to keep an eye on the system, even with everything he already knew.

Very well, he thought, biting his bottom lip. Who else was there, after all?

But it weighed on him over the coming weeks, as the plans continued to be drawn up, scrapped and then started all over again. He had arguments over and over in his head, while he sat at his desk, trying to ward away the headaches with painkillers.

In the end, he conceded there was no one else. He would oversee this, just as he oversaw the intelligence being gathered and the country's political decisions. It was only one more area to watch over, after all. 

* * *

**October 2009.**

**Location: The Coeur de Lion Offices, Mayfair, London.**

Mycroft tapped his pen against his desk, frowning as he began to count off the things he had to organise by the end of the month. “Sylvia Ross is still mulling over the security camera funding, Hugh Seagroves still isn’t sure about launching the dead body aeroplane project-”

“-You really need to call that something else,” Anthea said.

Mycroft managed a small smile at that. “You come up with it,” he said. “And then I can’t pin the Secretary of State for Environment, Food and Rural Affairs down at the moment. I was under the impression he was avoiding me, but it turns out he’s having some trouble in his constituency again. He hasn’t been in Parliament for the past two votes… the only event he’s attended has been a swanky party at the Ritz.”

“Scheduling is a nightmare,” Anthea muttered, flicking through the diary on her phone. “You are absolutely at the limit for meetings you can fit in over the next fortnight.”

“I need to see Sylvia and Hugh as soon as possible.”

“The only times I can fit them in are all after 8pm. Even then you’re often busy. And you won’t catch Hugh working after 8pm unless he’s got a drink in his hand and he’s doing some networking.”

Mycroft shook his head. “That’s two people who prefer socialising to work…”

“Most people do prefer socialising to work,” Anthea replied. “I always thought Sylvia was quite a party animal back in her day.”

“It has never stopped being Sylvia’s day,” Mycroft muttered.

“What we need to do is put them in a room with some alcohol and make them do your bidding.”

“Yes.”

“So we need a party.”

Mycroft glanced at her. “I don’t throw parties.”

“You do if you want to get this sorted this month. It’s your birthday soon, isn’t it?”

“I don’t celebrate birthdays.”

“Then you won’t get everything sorted out. I’ll organise it. Or Loretta will, at least. We’ll dress up, have some drinks, do some deals and then you can go home.”

Mycroft frowned. “We don’t need to tell them it’s my birthday.”

“We do. It’ll guilt them into going, since it’s so last minute.”

Mycroft sighed. “Fine. Invite the three of them first. And if one of them says no, we’ll cancel the whole thing.”

“Hugh’s definitely in. He can’t say no to me. We’ll promise Sylvia she can meet your date-”

Mycroft held his hand up to silence her. “-I must have misheard you. I am not taking a date.”

“Not officially, no. But Sylvia’s a hopeless romantic at heart. And you and I both know she has a fondness for the police force.”

“Police?” Mycroft frowned at her. “Oh no. No. No, we are not getting him involved.”

“He can keep you entertained when it gets boring.” Anthea scrolled through her phone and then held her phone out to him.

Mycroft frowned. “What?” he asked.

She pushed the phone into his hand. “October 21. 8pm. Venue to be confirmed.”

Mycroft glanced down at the screen. Dialling: Greg Lestrade. Mycroft groaned and held the phone up to his ear, glaring at Anthea.

“Lestrade,” Greg answered.

“Hello…” Mycroft waved his arm to gesture for Anthea to leave, but she just crossed one leg over the other and picked up some papers she clearly wasn’t intending to read. Mycroft rolled his eyes. “Are you busy?” he asked.

“Nope,” Greg said. “Well, I mean, I’m doing paperwork but I’m willing to be distracted. What’s up?”

“I’m… Anthea is planning a gathering.” From across the desk, she smiled. Mycroft only glared at her. “A small, social gathering on October 21. Are you available?”

“21st?” Mycroft listened as Greg began to flick through some papers. “Yeah, I’m good for the 21st. Isn’t that your birthday?”

“It is,” Mycroft murmured.

“You’re throwing a birthday party?”

“Anthea’s throwing a… a gathering. It has very little to do with my birthday, and more to do with negotiations.”

“Are you negotiating with me?” Greg asked.

Mycroft smiled a little. “Not on this occasion.”

Greg laughed. “Alright. Yeah, I’m in. Especially on your birthday. Is it a posh do, or do I wear jeans?”

“Somewhere in between,” Mycroft replied. “Thank you. I’ll send a car to your flat for around 7.45pm.”

“Sounds great. Thanks for the invite.”

“You’re welcome,” Mycroft replied before hanging up. He handed Anthea’s phone back to her. “Satisfied?” he asked.

“Very,” she said. “I’ll organise the rest. Do you have a venue preference?”

“I would prefer this didn’t even happen,” Mycroft muttered.

“Too late.” Anthea stood up. “It’s work,” she said. “And a little bit of play.”

Mycroft shook his head. “You’re lucky you caught me in a good mood,” he muttered.

She raised her eyebrows. “Good mood?” she asked. “I didn’t even think you knew what that was anymore.”

“Get out,” Mycroft muttered, pressing his lips hard together.

She flashed him a smile and left, and he shook his held. Impertinent, he thought. Yet, he couldn’t deny that the idea of seeing Greg made his heart beat a little faster. Like the idiot he was.

* * *

He was 40 years old. The realisation struck him while he fastened his tie that morning, staring at his reflection in the mirror. He was 40. He felt and looked every one of those years too. There were lines on his face, he’d put on weight, his hair was receding. He’d got old.

Men’s appearances didn’t matter an awful lot, not in the grand scheme of things, not in his work. And Mycroft knew his suits said everything he needed them to, and his hairline and wrinkles and his weight were irrelevant. Most of the people he dealt with wouldn’t even notice. But he did.

The day passed by in a blur, filled with meetings and two lunches. This is getting to be a terrible habit, he thought, as he sat down for the second. Politicians insisted meeting over lunch and coffee, and he ended up eating at all of them. No more lunchtime meetings. He told Anthea that when he returned to his office.

He got home and showered and changed into a Gieves & Hawkes grey suit with a dark blue tie. He patted down his hair and studied himself as he put on his pocket watch.

Greg would make the evening bearable, he knew that much.

He slid into the car at just gone 7.30, wringing his hands in his lap. “You could come this evening,” he told his driver, Kamik, after a minute. “If you wanted to.”

“Thank you, Mr Holmes, sir. But I have a dinner.”

Mycroft smiled a little. It always pleased him to hear Kamik speak English now he’d learnt it. “A dinner?”

“I met a woman. A very lovely woman, she works at the University College London.”

Mycroft nodded. “Have a lovely evening then.”

“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”

Mycroft glanced out of the window, and he felt his pulse race as he saw Greg walk out of the front door. He grinned as he opened the door, sliding into the chair. “I thought I was meeting you there,” he said.

Mycroft glanced down at the present Greg put into his lap. “I was dreading being the only person there,” Mycroft murmured. “At least if you come with me then we can share drinks alone when no one else comes.”

“They’d be too scared not to go. Happy birthday.”

Mycroft smiled, beginning to relax. “Thank you.”

Greg handed him the present. “And this is for you.”

Mycroft glanced down at it. A gift. The box weighed a little more than a bottle of wine. The wrapping paper was covered in dinosaurs. It wasn’t the first paper grabbed from a supermarket, it was thought-through, a considered choice. Greg had put so much care into wrapping paper. He peeled back the paper. The folding was rough and not straight, and Mycroft knew Greg had wrapped it himself. The paper was folded over a few times, as though he’d tried to straighten it, tried to get it perfect. He’d failed, but the effort was unmistakable.

There was a plain cardboard box beneath the paper. He opened it, and reached in. His hand wrapped around the neck of a bottle of wine and he pulled it out. It was inside a wooden bottle holder, with spines along its back and a tail… Mycroft blinked. The wine holder was in the shape of a stegosaurus. It had legs and feet and it was… splendid.

He laughed as he turned it over, and the sound came as though it was yanked right out of him. When had he last laughed?

“Thank you,” he said, still smiling in wonderment. “Every gift you’ve ever bought me has taken me totally by surprise. I didn’t realise things like this existed.”

“It’s probably won’t fit in in your flat,” Greg said. “But I liked it.”

Mycroft looked up at him. “As do I.”

Greg smiled, and the butterflies filled Mycroft’s stomach. “How’s your birthday been?” Greg asked.

“Busy. And quite tedious.”

“Who else is coming tonight?”

“A few people I need to talk around on certain matters. I’m hoping some wine and a relaxing environment will remind them to say yes to my various strategies.”

Greg laughed. “Great plan.”

The sound alone made Mycroft smile, and for the first time in months, he didn’t feel the tension that had been plaguing him. “I hope you won’t find it too dull. I invited you because I didn’t think I’d enjoy it without you there.” And God, that hadn’t been the truth, because it was all Anthea, but Mycroft meant it nonetheless.

“I’ll do my best. What role are you here as?”

“Role?” Mycroft asked, frowning.

“Government official or what?”

“Oh. Yes, Minor position in the Department of Transport.”

Greg grinned. “Alright then. Good work on the trains.”

Mycroft smiled again and got out of the car, walking in towards The Grand Union bar. They had roped off a section for him, with leather sofas and small tables, perfect for intimate conversations. Anthea was already there with Arnou, dressed to the nines. They handed over their coats.

Mycroft saw out of the corner of his eye as Greg lifted his hand to his chest, pulling a face as he caught sight of Anthea there, in her full-length green dress.

“You don’t need a tie,” Mycroft murmured, and he could feel the heat of Greg’s skin, close to his lips as he spoke close to his ear. “Everyone else is needlessly formal, not the other way around.”

Greg stared at him. “It’s weird when you do that.”

Mycroft smiled and walked towards Anthea. “Good evening,” he murmured, leaning forward and kissing both her cheeks.

“Happy birthday, Mr Holmes,” she said, a wide smile on her face.

“Thank you, Anthea.” Mycroft shook Arnou’s hand, and they exchanged a long look, assessing. Mycroft nodded once. He still hadn’t forgiven him, not for what had happened to him and Anthea when they’d both been drugged. It wasn’t Arnou’s fault, not really, but the resentment remained nonetheless. “This is Anthea’s husband, Arnou Fortier,” he explained to Greg. Mycroft looked around. “Who am I looking for?” he asked.

“By the window is the Shadow Secretary Minister Without Portfolio,” Anthea said. “With his wife, who is a human rights lawyer. Just behind them is target one for the evening.”

“Secretary of State for Environment, Food and Rural Affairs,” Mycroft murmured to Greg, resting his hand on the bar behind him. “Recently lost a string of investments, caused a small scandal when he married his current wife.”

“That’s his wife?” Greg asked in disbelief.

Mycroft nodded as he watched them together, her fiddling with her phone in apparent disinterest. “Yes. She was just 19 at the time.”

“What does she see in him?”

“Quite,” Mycroft agreed. “Target two?”

“Not here yet,” Anthea said. “Target three is en-route, she requested one of your cars.”

Mycroft shook his head. Sylvia did like to be extravagant on occasion. And she did like to make an entrance. “Of course she did,” he muttered. “Very well. Greg, I must speak to the Secretary of State for Environment, Food and Rural Affairs.” He turned to Anthea. “Anthea, please look after him,” he said, a little pointedly. He glanced at the bar and swiped the spare glass of wine resting on the tray.

“I think we need to get you a drink, Detective Inspector,” he heard Anthea reply as Mycroft began to walk towards the Environment Minister.

The Minister smiled, nudging his young wife so she stopped playing with her phone. “Mr Holmes,” he said as they shook hands. “Do you know Jessica?”

Mycroft smiled at her and shook her hand. “No, I don’t. Lovely to make your acquaintance. I hope your journey here was… acceptable?”

“Yeah, yes, all fine,” the Minister replied.

“Did you have a long journey?”

“No, only Norwich.” The Minister paused. “Go and get a drink, Jess,” he said, handing her some cash. She raised her eyebrows a fraction but walked towards the bar. “What’s up?”

“Are they pushing you to resign?” Mycroft asked him. “After the investments?”

“Yep. I’m teetering on the edge. I’m only holding onto my career because they keep thinking with the elections so close, it’s best not to cause a ruckus.”

“But you won’t be able to run in the election, I presume?”

“No,” the Secretary said. “No, I won’t. They won’t let me. So, I’ll just have to quietly skulk off and find something else to do.”

Mycroft nodded. “But you have a legal background. Will you go back to that?”

“Probably.”

“Your political career is over, but that doesn’t mean you are no longer useful.”

The Minister shrugged. “Come off it,” he said. “I’m not even invited to Cabinet meetings any more. How can I be any use to you while I’m no longer in the inner sanctum?”

“You have many friends in the House Of Lords.”

The Minister paused for a moment. “What do you need?” he asked.

“I need a bill to fail,” Mycroft informed him. “There’s a new one being rushed through. Another anti-terrorism bill, one designed to improve GCHQ’s capabilities to spy on people’s computers. I need it stopped.”

“The House Of Lords stopped the 42-prison limit.”

Mycroft nodded. “I’m under the impression a number of members are being leaned on, however. The Prime Minister is intent on this bill, and I need it stopped. The country needs it stopped.”

“And what if I can convince my friends to do what you want?”

“I have friends involved in some of the top law firms in the capital. I’m sure I can set you up an interview.”

The Minister sipped his drink and nodded. “You’ve always been loyal to me. Yeah. Of course.”

Mycroft smiled and shook his hand. “I will be very terribly sorry to see you leave Parliament,” he lied. “But I wish you the very best in your endeavours.”

“You’re such a smooth talker,” the Secretary said with a grin.

Mycroft forced out a fake laugh. “One tries,” he replied, and glanced over to where Greg stood, watching him. The Minister nodded and walked off to join his wife at the bar. He smiled at Greg as he began to wander over.

“Enjoying yourself?” Greg asked.

Mycroft smiled. “I wasn’t until now,” he said.

Greg laughed and tapped their wine glasses together. “A man walks into a bar with a roll of tarmac under his arm and says ‘Pint please, and one for the road’.”

Mycroft laughed, tilting his head back a little. “What on earth was that for?”

Greg grinned. “You said I was here to entertain you. I’m doing my job.”

Mycroft opened his mouth and then closed it again. “No,” he said. “I have absolutely no response. For once, I am rendered speechless.”

Greg laughed. “My one aim in life.” Mycroft laughed again, and Greg fell in to step beside him. “Tell me about the people here.”

Mycroft glanced around. He knew them all in various guises. There was a man from the Defence Secretary’s office, an up-and-comer in the Labour Party. “Pornography addict, regular cannabis user,” Mycroft told him. Then there was Jessica, the Secretary’s wife and there was more to her than met the eye. “Pornography writer.” Mycroft hesitated for a moment as he looked across at Lucas Pavy, one of those who worked in his office. “Former ballet dancer-”

“-That guy used to do ballet?” Greg asked, staring.

Mycroft smiled. “Quite evident from his posture and foot position.”

Greg laughed. “Keep going.”

“Regular karaoke singer, another pornography addict and well, that man by the window is quite simply a Minister Without Portfolio and appears rather uninterested in this party.”

Greg snorted with laughter and Mycroft smiled, glancing at him. He heard Anthea’s footsteps behind them and turned around. “Mr Holmes. Target three.”

Mycroft glanced over his shoulder to where Sylvia Ross was, collecting a glass of whiskey. She raised her eyebrows at him, a bemused smile on her face. “Thank you, Anthea. Greg, would you do me the pleasure of joining me?”

“Me?” Greg asked, staring.

“Yes. Your charm will be quite helpful in this situation.”

Greg laughed, a little disbelieving. Mycroft held a hand out, almost to touch Greg’s lower back as he led him towards Sylvia, though he didn’t quite allow his hand to rest there. 

“Mycroft,” she said, holding her hand out. Mycroft smiled and kissed her hand.

“Greg, this is Sylvia Ross,” Mycroft said.

Greg shook her hand. “Nice to meet you.”

Mycroft watched as her eyes skimmed over Greg, finishing on the wedding ring on his finger. “How do you do,” she said.

“Greg is a Detective Inspector for the Metropolitan Police,” Mycroft explained.

“Oh.” Sylvia smiled a little. And Mycroft knew in that instant that she’d put two and two together and made six. She knew Mycroft had cared deeply for a man in the Metropolitan Police. She’d seen Greg’s wedding finger and she’d… _Oh, Sylvia, you hopeless, predictable romantic_ , Mycroft thought, a little bitterly. “My husband was a policeman,” Sylvia explained to Greg. “He died 10 years ago, but he was always very well-respected. Hubert Ross, perhaps you know the name?”

“Yeah, I do,” Greg said. “There’s a whole corridor. The Hubert Ross office block.”

Sylvia smiled. “Oh, it’s still called that? How utterly perfect. Mycroft, thank you, this has made my day.”

“Perhaps we can discuss the plans for the-” Mycroft began.

“-Oh, Mycroft, must we always talk about work?” Sylvia interrupted. “I would like to spend some time talking to your husband, will you allow an old lady that at least?”

Mycroft swallowed and glanced at Greg. “Of course,” he murmured before Greg could protest.

Sylvia turned back to Greg. “And in what department do you work?”

“The serious crime division,” Greg said, hardly missing a beat.

“And how successful are you?”

Greg laughed a bit, it sounding nervous and unsure. “I’m doing alright,” he said.

“He’s too modest,” Mycroft said. “The statistics are the best Scotland Yard has seen for at least the past 10 years. If not longer.”

Greg glanced at him and smiled, his cheeks turning slightly pink. “Thank you.”

“What made you become a policeman?” Sylvia asked.

“I didn’t know what else to do,” Greg laughed.

Sylvia smiled. “How refreshing, some honesty. Mycroft.”

Mycroft tilted his head, bracing himself. “Yes, Mrs Ross?”

“You would like me to sign the paperwork currently sitting on my desk at home, is that correct?”

He nodded. “Yes it is.”

“Why? And before you answer, think about your husband’s honesty and reflect that in your carefully chosen reply.”

Mycroft paused. Honesty? “Because it’ll improve our ability to monitor traffic patterns.”

“And?”

“And it would save about £2million.”

Sylvia nodded. “And there we have it, Mr Lestrade. An honest answer from a gentleman who does not always wish to give one. I will sign your papers, Mr Holmes. If only because I have had the privilege of meeting your partner.”

Mycroft smiled. “Thank you,” he said, but her words twisted in his gut. Oh, he would have shown Greg off if he’d not let him go. He’d have taken him to every party, introduced him to the Prime Minister and the most important people in the country. He would have stood proudly at his side, sharing Greg’s successes, feeling blessed to be beside him.

“If you excuse me, there are a number of people here also begging for my signature,” Sylvia said, her eyes sparkling in amusement. “But since it isn’t their birthdays, I doubt they will be so fortunate.” And with that she turned and walked away.

Greg laughed and looked at Mycroft, shuffling his feet. “Er. So.”

“Thank you,” Mycroft said, feeling tense all over again, not sure what to say.

Greg grinned. “You brought me over to her on purpose.”

“Yes,” Mycroft admitted. “And you were perfect.” He swallowed. Too perfect. “Shall we find another glass of wine?”

Greg nodded. “Cheers, yeah.”

They walked to the bar, and Mycroft smiled gratefully as Anthea joined them.

“Two out of two, Mr Holmes?” she asked.

“Yes.”

Greg laughed. “I hate to think what you two are like at work. Do you ever lose?”

Anthea laughed too. “Lose? Not a word in my vocabulary.”

Greg leaned against the bar, and Mycroft stood up straight beside him. Their arms touched, just lightly. Mycroft moved, just a little towards Anthea, but Greg moved with him, and their arms pressed more firmly together. Mycroft stared straight ahead, watching the guests.

Mycroft couldn’t help but think back to Jane, cheating on Greg, finding solace in someone else. Greg wasn’t a stupid man. Mycroft was sure he had to know, on some level, what was going on.

“Target two will be more difficult,” Anthea said, distracting him from his thoughts. “He’s late, as usual. He’s made us late three times this month alone,” she added, turning to Greg. “I schedule Mr Holmes to the precise second. And he messes up everything.”

“To the second?” Greg asked. “You’re exaggerating, right?”

“No. To the second.”

Mycroft looked up to find Greg looking at him. Mycroft smiled a little, but his mouth was dry. Their arms still touched. He could feel Greg’s body heat, smell his aftershave. It was painful being so close, yet so far away. To know it would never be over, not for him. Another year would pass, and he would be 41, and he knew he would still remember what it felt like just to have Greg so close. And he would wait, always wait, for those brief seconds when they could be touching again, however fleeting it was.

“Excuse me. I have found our final target,” he said, his eyes locking on Hugh Seagroves.

“Hugh,” Anthea said, a false beaming smile on her face as they walked over and she shook his hand. “It’s been too long.”

“It has,” he replied, shaking Mycroft’s hand. “Happy birthday.”

“Thank you,” Mycroft replied. “And thank you for coming.”

“What do you want?” Hugh asked.

Mycroft smiled a little gratefully that he was willing to cut to the chase. “I wanted to confirm the… aeroplane project.”

“Bond Air,” Anthea said.

They both turned to her, frowning. “Sorry?” Mycroft asked.

“You asked me to name it. It’s called Bond Air.”

Hugh smiled wistfully. “James Bond. I wanted to be him. I wanted the women, the drinks, the cars… Did you ever want to be him?”

Mycroft shook his head. “No. But I can understand the appeal.”

“Bond Air,” Hugh muttered. He shrugged. “I… we’re doing it alone, Mycroft. The French won’t touch it and the Germans are dubious to say the least.”

“They’ll all fall in line once they realise we’re onto something.”

“Hugh,” Anthea began, reaching forward and touching his forearm. “This is a great project. We could save lives. In years to come, when the files are no longer classified, people will marvel at the genius of it. And whose name will be attached to it?”

“I didn’t do this for legacy,” Hugh murmured, but Mycroft saw his resolve faltering under Anthea's charm.

“We did it to save lives,” Mycroft said. “You and I disagree on a lot of things, but we don’t disagree on that.”

Hugh nodded. “You pull two of your team out and I’ll get two of mine and we’ll make a special commission.”

Mycroft smiled and shook his hand. “Bond Air begins,” he said. He paused and pulled a face. “It really is a terrible name.”

Anthea laughed. “I must get another drink,” she said. “Mycroft?”

Mycroft nodded. “Thank you, Hugh,” he said, following her back to where Greg and Arnou were stood together.

Anthea touched Mycroft’s arm and stretched up to kiss his cheeks. “We’ll be leaving,” she said. “We don’t get many nights off together.” She turned to Greg and kissed his cheek too. “It was nice to get to know you better.”

Mycroft frowned at her. Getting to know one another? God, he should have known leaving Anthea with Greg was a bad idea. He watched Anthea and Arnou go, and then turned to Greg. “One final glass before we leave?” he asked. “Perhaps we can make our own getaway to the other side of the bar.”

Greg smiled. “Sure. It’s your birthday, whatever you want.”

Mycroft led him to the bar and asked for two glasses of wine.

“Do you come here often?” Greg asked. Mycroft glanced at him and Greg laughed, rubbing his forehead. “That was cheesy.”

Mycroft smiled. “I don’t,” he said, paying for their drinks. “In fact, I’ve never come here. Anthea did the organising.”

Greg nodded. “I didn’t think it was your thing.”

“It’s not,” Mycroft agreed, leading them to a table and chairs around the corner, away from the hubbub. “This certainly has been productive,” he said.

“I’m glad it’s been a good night.”

“The stegosaurus bottle holder was the the high point.”

Greg laughed. “I’m glad you liked it.”

“Very much so.”

Greg smiled and sipped his wine. “So, you finally joined the 40 club.”

Mycroft groaned. “Why do you remind me?”

“Because you took a lot of joy in reminding me when I turned 40.”

“I take it all back,” Mycroft said. “Every word.”

Greg laughed. Their shoes knocked together under the table, just for a moment. Then their shins rested together, touching just a little, hidden from view beneath the table. “Feel any different?” Greg asked.

Mycroft smiled. He felt… lighter. “Not at all. Although, my birthday seems remarkably useful for settling disagreements, so I may do this every year.”

“You should. I’ll come and entertain you whenever you want.”

“Do you have anymore jokes?” Mycroft asked.

“How do you organise a space party?”

“I don’t know.”

“You planet.”

Mycroft groaned. “That was dreadful.”

Greg laughed. “C’mon, you know you want to smile a bit.”

Mycroft narrowed his eyes, and Greg continued to laugh, his eyes sparkling. Mycroft felt a smile beginning at the corner of his mouth and Greg’s laugh was infectious and he soon found himself joining in. Their eyes met, as their laughter died away, and he felt a shiver go up his spine.

“So, how often do you come to parties like this?” Greg asked.

“Too often, but I usually only stay for a few minutes. It depends on the occasion and what I need to get from it.”

Greg nodded. “Must get boring.”

“It’s not my favourite thing, I admit. Anthea makes it bearable. You made it enjoyable, and for that I’m grateful.”

“I wasn’t fishing for compliments.”

“I know. But take it regardless.” Mycroft looked at his pocket watch. “I have a very early start tomorrow and must get home. Can I get you a lift with me or would you like to stay longer?”

Greg shook his head and stood up. “No, I’ll come with you.”

Mycroft nodded and finished his wine. They collected their coats and Mycroft led them down to the car. He held the wine holder out, putting it down onto his lap. “Your gifts are very thoughtful,” he said.

“I try.”

“You succeeded.”

Greg smiled at him. “I had a really good time.”

“I thought you would be bored.”

“I wasn’t. I’m not when I’m out with you, it’s always good.” Greg bit his lip.

Mycroft swallowed and looked out of the window. He was so sure Greg would be able to see it. How much he longed for him. To have his touch again. “Yes,” he said softly.

The minutes rolled on, the silence heavy between them, until Malcolm parked the car. Mycroft turned to Greg. He could just tell him about Jane. He could just blurt it out, then pick up the pieces…

But no. Greg wasn’t his, and anyway, he couldn’t bear the thought of them having one night together when it would be mingled with Greg’s bitterness and sorrow. That wasn’t the way that it should go. Mycroft didn’t want to taint the memories he had of them together, those ones where they truly wanted one another without a third party being in the way. “Thank you, Greg,” he said instead.

Greg shook his head. “No need. Hope you enjoyed your birthday.”

Their eyes met. Greg forced a smile, but it didn’t touch his eyes. He climbed out of the car and closed the door. Mycroft stared down at his knees.

He got home and undressed, hanging up his clothes. He sat down on the edge of the bed and rubbed his face.

It took a few days for that feeling to even start to dissipate. Only a few hours with Greg, and it brought everything back in a rush. He felt weak, stupid, overcome by unwanted feelings. Every wall he built, Greg obliterated with a few smiles. He wanted the numbness back. He wanted not to want him. He wanted not to miss him.

He wanted not to love him.

And he found himself drinking alone one night, the Jeff Buckley album playing. And it felt like grief. How dare Greg’s wife throw away everything she had?

And he knew that night, while he listened to that song - that song they’d danced to - on repeat. That dreadful day in January, he had made the biggest mistake of his life. He’d let Greg go. He’d let his happiness walk away. And he knew he’d never stop regretting that.


	47. Killing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I made a huge error and I'm sorry. I realised I made a mistake in chapter 43. I said Hilel Klahr was still at large. Well, he wasn’t. Jimmy caught him. The mission where Jimmy Dine died was one to take down his successor - Dadua Reza. Reza has been at large since then. I’ve edited the section in 43 accordingly. I’m so sorry. I’m an idiot. Forgive me!

**November 2009.**

**Location: Whitehall, London.**

He sat with Beth Davenport from the Department Of Transport while they went through the funding Sylvia Ross had agreed to. “This will enable us to follow traffic patterns,” Mycroft explained, passing the papers over. “The funding has been approved, but it will need to go through Parliament.”

“And it will save money?” she asked.

Mycroft nodded. “It’s everything you asked for,” he informed her. “And more besides. You will be able to spot the troublesome areas and ways to try to decrease the congestion.”

“Thank you.”

Mycroft nodded. “You’re welcome,” he said. He shook her hand and then returned to the other papers. Sylvia had finally signed off on his CCTV programme. Improvements were being put in place while he worked. He’d soon have access to cameras across the capital. He could monitor them. Move them.

He would extend the programme throughout the country eventually, though he knew he would struggle to get the funding for it.

But cameras across London were enough for now. He only had Sherlock and Greg to worry about. If anyone was going to get into danger, it would be the two of them.

* * *

He spent a Sunday afternoon in secondhand book shops, searching for rare copies of novels he’d not read yet. He picked up a joke book there. He whittled some hours away in a cafe, circling the jokes he liked. When he got home, he posted it to Greg for his birthday present.

* * *

**December 2009.**

**Location: Langley, Fairfax County, Virginia.**

He glanced at Jimmy Dine’s star on the memorial wall for just a few seconds as he walked into the CIA headquarters at Langley. _In honor of those members of the Central Intelligence Agency who gave their lives in service of their country_ , the writing on the wall said.

“A week doesn’t go by when I don’t think what we should have done differently,” Toby Goff, the Deputy Director for the CIA, said as he approached Mycroft, following his line of sight.

Mycroft pursed his lips. “He made a decision. No one could have talked him out of it.” He turned to Toby and shook his hand.

“Follow me,” Toby said, smiling warmly at him. “Mycroft nodded and began to follow Toby to the lift. “So, it must have been a long while since you were here I’d guess?”

“I…” Mycroft frowned as Toby pressed the buttons for the hideous torture chamber… “Yes,” he murmured. “I… I think I’d rather…” He gestured with his hand, glancing around for the stairs.

“Get in here. We’re right at the top.”

Mycroft frowned and took a step inside. He stared down at his feet, lifting one hand to rest against the cool wall to steady himself. He swallowed.

“So when where you last here?” Toby asked. “It must have been after Jimmy died.”

Mycroft nodded, distracted. He bit down hard on his bottom lip and he flinched as the lift began its ascent.

“Even now, I swear we’re living in his shadow,” Toby continued. “I mean. We would have been, if he were still here. He’d have my job now, I think if… You alright over there?”

“Fine,” Mycroft bit out, taking a deep breath in. It was fine, he was fine, he was safe, he wasn’t in danger… God, why hadn’t he just taken the stairs? He was half aware of Toby talking to him but he could only back himself into the corner, staring down at his shoes.

Images of a warehouse erupted in his mind, the feeling of constriction, of being held down, tied up…

“Mycroft?”

Mycroft flicked his eyes up as the doors opened. He stepped outside, and headed for the window, swallowing back his nausea. He fought to catch his breath. Everything was blurred behind his eyes. He reached up to wipe his face. “Fine,” he muttered. “I’m fine. Absolutely fine.” He took a breath and stared out of the window, watching as cars went through their security checks at the gate.

“D’you need a minute?” Toby asked. “I can get some water?”

“No.” Mycroft took his handkerchief from his pocket and patted down his face.

“Y’could have said not to take the lift,” Toby said. “I mean, there’s nothing wrong with the stairs.”

“Oh, shut up,” Mycroft muttered, glancing across at him. “And stop talking about Jimmy as though he didn’t know his own mind. He was the best this agency had, and still would be. But you don't need to remind me of that in order to make me do whatever it is you want me to do.” He took a step away from the window. “Lead me to your office. And cut to the chase.”

Toby raised his eyebrows, shoving his hands into his pocket. “You’re lucky I’ve known you all these years, Mycroft.”

Mycroft stared him down. “People don’t speak to you like that anymore. But you’re not my employer.”

Toby shrugged and began to walk away. He yanked the door to his office open and Mycroft followed him, folding his handkerchief away and tucking it into his pocket. He sat down at the desk without an invitation, flicking his eyes over the family photos on Toby’s desk.

Toby sat down opposite him. “Why’d you take the lift?”

Mycroft frowned. “What does it matter?” he asked.

“I need to know if you’re up to the job.”

“What job?”

Toby pushed some papers towards him. Mycroft paused for a moment before picking them up. “Dadua Reza,” he murmured. The terrorist responsible for Jimmy’s death. For hundreds of deaths. “You found him.”

Toby nodded. “Yes we did,” he replied. “Got a mission planned, all ready to go.”

“But?”

“But we know what happened last time we got close to taking him out. He knew our plan and he killed them. This is the first time we’ve got anywhere near him in 13 years.”

“What do you need from me?” Mycroft asked.

“I need you to look at everything we’ve got. All the tapes, all the communications… I need you to tell me if we’re safe to go in and execute him without getting blown up. Again.”

Mycroft pressed his lips together. “I did this before,” he said. “In 1996, I sat at a computer with Jimmy for hours and went through everything. And he and the other agents I worked with lost their lives. What makes you think I want to do that again?”

“Because killing Dadua Reza won’t bring back Jimmy but it’ll making you feel fucking great.”

“Will it?” Mycroft asked. He stared down at Reza’s photograph. “This picture must be at least 15 years old. He’d be an old man now, perhaps slow on his feet. Even here, he walks with a limp. There’s glory in it, I suppose, for the CIA. But I’m not convinced you need me.”

“I spoke to Bill Tomlinson,” Toby said. “He had a feeling you’d love to be a part of this.”

“Bill works for me,” Mycroft said. “He doesn’t speak on my behalf.”

Toby shrugged. “Bill cares as much about killing Dadua Reza as much as you do. He was there, on that mission in 1996 too. He saw what happened.”

“Then perhaps he should be here, and not me.”

“Oh come on. We all know you have a special interest in it, and it’s all ‘cause of Jimmy. Maybe you owe it to him.”

“I made peace with that many years ago.” He paused though, glancing down at the picture again. “How long do you need me for?”

“A few days.”

Mycroft nodded. “I want an office. I want to be left alone with everything you have, no distractions.”

Toby nodded. “Fair’s fair.”

“How much are you offering?”

“Sorry?”

“The money. I’m not working for free.”

“So, killing Dadua Reza isn’t good enough?”

“You’re not putting him in a room with me and handing me a gun, are you?” Mycroft pointed out. “Some young operative gets to do the killing. All I do is give you the confidence you need to put your young team out there.”

“Usual freelance salary.”

“No.”

Toby frowned. “What?”

“I’m not some MI6 trainee anymore. If you want me, you pay your top rate.”

“We don’t have a rate system.”

Mycroft rose slowly from his chair. “One-hundred-and-eighty-thousand,” he said. “Pounds. Not dollars.”

“For a few days work? That’s insane.”

Mycroft smiled coolly at him. “Let’s call it payment, shall we, for putting me in a position where I was tortured for days, on your watch. I never told a soul. That would have been a terrible black mark against your record, if I had. But we all stayed quiet, didn’t we? So you could climb the ladders at Langley to become Deputy Director of the CIA.”

“Fine,” Toby muttered. “Bloody hell, though, Mycroft. I saw you four years ago. You weren’t so…”

Mycroft narrowed his eyes. “So what?” he asked.

“I’d almost have considered us friends then,” Toby said. He shrugged. “Fine. Have it your way. You’ll get an office, and everything you need, plus the cash. Just make sure my team isn’t at risk.”

Mycroft nodded. “There will always be a risk. But yes, you can trust me to do a thorough job.”

* * *

He sat alone in an office for three days, leaving only to sleep and shower and eat. By the end of the third day, he began to brief Toby and his large team. They ironed out plans together.

And on the fifth day, he stood at the back of the darkened room, watching the screens as the mission was carried out. He almost felt he was re-living that fateful night in 1996. The technology was better, the audio clearer, the screens larger. But they had the same purpose.

When the voices came over loud and clear, Mycroft could close his eyes and almost hear Jimmy Dine’s voice. He watched the scenes play out almost in a daze. He half-listened. He half-watched.

And when Dadua Reza’s face flashed up on the screen, he didn’t feel a thing. He’d taken four bullets to the chest. The team around him pumped their fists, but the celebrations were muted until the helicopters were out of enemy territory. That came 20 minutes later. And then the final confirmation - Reza, one of the world’s most wanted men, was dead.

They cheered then. The Director of the CIA took a phone call from the President of the United States. “He wants me to convey his appreciation for the hard work you have all put in to this mission,” the Director reported to the room. “He will be issuing a statement to the nation in 20 minutes.”

“It’s a great night,” Toby said to them all. “And we should celebrate. There is more to come tomorrow, but you deserve to pat yourselves on the back. I think…” Toby glanced at Mycroft. “We should have a minute’s silence to remember those who lost their lives during the course of this long, and difficult struggle against not just Dadua Reza, but his whole organisation.”

Mycroft turned away and rolled his eyes. He walked out of the room, his footsteps loud while everyone around him fell quiet. He closed the door, and shook his head. He didn’t think it was a sincere gesture, and took no comfort from it. He’d made his peace with Jimmy’s death. There was no solace to find in the death of one old man.

He glanced down at his phone, not sure quite what to do next. It was just gone 9am in England. Almost on autopilot, his fingers found Greg’s number, and he lifted his phone to his ear.

“Lestrade,” Greg answered, a hint of sleepiness to his voice.

“Good morning.”

“Morning yourself.” Greg yawned. “Sorry.”

“You were lying in.”

Greg laughed. “No. Well, yeah, but I’m up now, making tea. Jane’s at work, and I’m on the late-shift tonight. I’m thinking of getting back into bed and watching TV. Anyway, what’s up?”

Mycroft frowned for a moment. He needed a suitable excuse, a reason to call... “You were working on a case.”

“I work on loads of cases. Which one?”

Mycroft wracked his brains for a moment, trying to concoct some sort of story. “The… Sir Jeffrey Patterson.”

“Nope, not me,” Greg said. “It’s suicide, anyway. Do you want it? I’m sure I can get Dimmock to send the details over to you.”

“You’re certain it’s suicide?”

“Yeah, definitely. You don’t think it is?”

In truth, Mycroft had absolutely no idea. He wasn’t even sure where he’d plucked the name from. “No. I don’t know. I haven’t put in a lot of thought.”

“You alright?” Greg asked.

Mycroft frowned and wandered to the window. “Yes. Yes, I’m fine.”

“Are you sure?”

“The President of the United States is going to give a televised address in…” Mycroft checked the time. “Fifteen minutes. You should watch it.”

“What’s it about?”

“Dadua Reza is dead. He was… killed.”

“What? The terrorist? Bloody hell.”

“Quite.”

“So, did you have something to do with it?” Greg asked. Mycroft stayed quiet. “Oh, yeah,” Greg muttered. “Shit, sorry, I guess you can’t tell me even if you did.” They both fell silent for a seconds. “Well, I’ll raise a drink to you tonight,” Greg said. “Not every day the world’s most wanted man gets found, is it?”

“No,” Mycroft murmured. “No, it’s not.”

“Are you sure you’re alright?”

Mycroft paused for a moment. “You should watch it,” he said. “It’ll be one of those moments in history, where everyone asks where you were when you first heard the news.”

“And I heard it before the President even announced it.”

“Yes, perhaps don’t mention that.”

Greg laughed. “Your secret’s safe with me.”

“I should go.”

“Yeah. I need to stick the telly on. Talk soon.”

“Yes,” Mycroft replied, hanging up the phone. He listened as the celebrations began. He left instead. He went straight to the airport and boarded an aeroplane back to England. Reza’s death dominated discussions. It dominated the news.  

When he arrived at the office, he found a note on his desk. It was from Bill Tomlinson, simply saying ‘congratulations’. Mycroft ripped it up and threw it away, and they didn’t discuss it.

* * *

He was still at work late on Christmas Eve when Greg’s present arrived. It was the same joke book, with jokes circled in a different coloured pen. Mycroft smiled a little, seeing where their humour matched and diverged. He had already sent Greg a venus fly trap, amused as he had been with his own, sitting on his desk. He glanced up at where Anthea stood by his door, watching him.

“You were meant to have gone home three hours ago,” Mycroft murmured. He glanced at the time on his computer. “It’s now Christmas Day.”

“You didn’t leave," she said. 

“I’m working.”

“Then I am too.”

Mycroft narrowed his eyes at her. “Get to the point.”

“What are you doing for Christmas?”

“I’ll be working.”

“Spend it with Arnou and I.”

“No.” He looked back down at his computer and opened Watchtower.

“We’re having goose. All the trimmings.”

“No.”

“Mycroft-”

“-If you were under the impression that we were friends, then you’re mistaken,” he told her, looking back up at her. “You’re being over-familiar. When we are working, which is every single moment you and I are in the same room, then you call me ‘sir’ or ‘Mr Holmes’. I am your employer. I am not your friend, nor am I a confidante. I won’t spend Christmas with you. And in future, you will know better than to invite me.”

She stared at him for a moment. “Merry Christmas,” she finally muttered. “Sir.” She slammed the door closed behind her, and he pressed his lips together.

* * *

He worked at Crusader House during Christmas Day and Boxing Day and returned to work the following day. The only thing that forced him to confront the festive season was a phone call from his parents. Sherlock had gone to stay with them.

He considered apologising to Anthea. To tell her he had been tired, distracted. He didn’t. It was better this way, he thought, to not care, and to not have her care in return.

He’d cared about Jimmy, and he’d listed to the explosions while he died. A revenge killing didn’t turn back that clock.

* * *

**January 2010.**

**Location: Crusader House, Pall Mall, London.**

Mycroft pulled a face as he glanced down at his phone. He frowned as he answered it. “Yes?”

“Hi, Mycroft,” Greg said. “I’m sorry to bother you.”

“You’re not.”

“It’s just Sherlock.”

Mycroft rolled his eyes and poured the water from the kettle. “Of course it is.”

“He’s living with me and Jane at the moment, since he got kicked out of Montague Street for not paying the rent.”

Mycroft frowned. “Yes I know.”

“Right. Anyway, I’m moving him into a new place tomorrow.”

“Where?”

“Baker Street.”

Mycroft frowned. “Baker Street?” he asked. “How on earth is he supposed to afford Baker Street?”

“The landlady’s giving him a discount. Someone called Mrs Hudson. He made sure her husband was executed.”

“Frank Hudson,” Mycroft murmured. “Martha Hudson. Very well. Thank you.”

“Sherlock’s promised to give me a key this time. I’m going to help him move in tomorrow.”

“Thank you for letting me know.”

“You’re welcome.”

Mycroft hung up and pressed his lips together. He asked Anthea to find everything out she could about Martha Hudson. She’d been an exotic dancer in her youth. An alcoholic, a drug-user, like her husband. She’d been abused by him, it was clear from her medical records. He’d never been arrested, not for assault, but the signs couldn’t have been clearer. Apart from the drugs, Mycroft wasn’t too concerned about Sherlock living under her roof. She was relatively harmless.

* * *

The death of Beth Davenport brought Westminster to a screeching halt. Mycroft heard the news of her apparent suicide as he woke up and checked his phone for the news from Watertower from overnight.

She had been a social woman, a regular at the former Prime Minister’s gatherings. The current Prime Minister was not so fond of parties, so she held her own. She had been competent though. A force to be reckoned with. And Mycroft had worked with her occasionally, since her job had tied so closely to his mask as a civil servant in the department.

“Suicide,” Anthea confirmed when she brought him his morning tea.

Mycroft frowned. “In the same way as that other man. What was his name? The businessman. Patterson.” He typed the details into his computer. “She was found at a building site. It’s got to be linked. There’s some Sergeant on this case. Get me the Commander.”

“Sir?”

“Get me the Commander from the Metropolitan Police on the phone.”

“Yes, sir.”

Mycroft skim-read the details which had only reached the press an hour ago. There were no suggestions that it was possibly linked to the deaths of Sir Jeffrey Patterson and James Phillimore. Mycroft glanced up and took the phone from her. “Thank you for taking my call.”

“How can I help?” the Commander asked.

“The MP. Beth Davenport.”

“Yes, terrible news. Did you know her?”

“We were acquainted. Who is on the case?”

“Er. Christ. Not exactly my area… hang on…” Mycroft listened as the Commander typed something in. “Oh. Sergeant. Someone called Dimmock.”

“Take it off him,” Mycroft instructed. “Give it to Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade.”

“I’m sorry?”

“It’s not suicide,” Mycroft said. “Trust me on that. And this is a high-profile case. You need your best officers on it, and Lestrade is that. See to it that the case is on his desk in half an hour. And get a message to him. They’re linked. Davenport, Phillimore and Patterson. It’s not a coincidence, though you didn’t hear that from me.” He hung up the phone.

“Do you need to call Sherlock?” Anthea asked.

Mycroft shook his head. “Detective Inspector Lestrade will get Sherlock involved one way or another. Send a card of condolences to her family from me, on behalf of the Department Of Transport. Hand-delivered, not posted. They will close Parliament for the day out of respect. But the work won’t stop, so we need to keep busy. There will be press enquiries linking stress and the job, certainly until the police confirm it is murder, not suicide.”

“How do you know it’s not suicide?”

“I don’t believe in coincidences,” Mycroft said. “We’re staying out of the case once I know it’s on Lestrade’s desk.”

Anthea nodded. “I’ll keep you informed,” she said, collecting up her papers and leaving.

It took until the afternoon for Greg to become involved and for him to turn a press conference into national news. ‘Don’t commit suicide’, he had said. Mycroft had watched it live on the BBC website and had pulled an anguished face, unable to watch him make such a fool out of himself.

Beth Davenport’s murder made front page headlines for the next two days. The press kept digging, pushing the police for more information. And as far as Mycroft could tell, Sherlock was being uncooperative.

He kept an eye on his brother’s movements as he flitted between St Bartholomew’s and Baker Street. It was Anthea who alerted him to the man following Sherlock into 221 Baker Street. They sat in silence together, quickly researching who on earth he was.

They put a CCTV image through a facial recognition system and tracked him down because of his military history. He had been an army doctor, until the previous August. He’d served in Afghanistan in the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers, until he was shot in the shoulder.

“Track him,” he murmured to Anthea. “If he’s spending time with Sherlock, I need to know exactly who he is and what he’s doing.”

She nodded and left him to finding Doctor Watson’s medical notes. His therapist thought he had Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, which caused his intermittent tremor in his left hand.

Mycroft tracked him down that night, and took him to a warehouse near the Thames. The same one many years ago, that Sebastian Moran had a hung up a poster threatening Greg. If John Watson recognised the building, there was no evidence of it on his face. Any concerns Mycroft had that Watson had any links to the MORnetwork began to evaporate the longer they spoke to one another.

He watched him, studied him. He was a man with a psychosomatic limp. Defiant. Brave. Or simply idiotic.

“Do you plan to continue your association with Sherlock Holmes?” Mycroft asked.

“I could be wrong,” Doctor Watson replied. “But I think that’s none of your business.”

Mycroft frowned and offered him money to tell him what Sherlock was up to. And he replied ‘no’. ‘No’ without a second thought. He evidently wasn’t a rich man, but he turned the money down regardless.

“Could it be that you’ve decided to trust Sherlock Holmes of all people?” Mycroft enquired.

Doctor Watson frowned. “Who says I trust him?”

“You don’t seem the kind to make friends easily. I imagine people have already warned you to stay away from him, but I can see from your left hand that’s not going to happen.”

Mycroft walked up to him, studying his hand closely. It was still. “Most people blunder round this city, and all they see are streets and shops and cars," he said. "When you walk with Sherlock Holmes, you see the battlefield. You’ve seen it already, haven’t you?”

“What’s wrong with my hand?” Doctor Watson asked.

“You have an intermittent tremor in your left hand. Your therapist thinks it’s post-traumatic stress disorder. She thinks you’re haunted by memories of your military service.” Mycroft flashed him a sardonic smile. “Fire her. She’s got it the wrong way round. You’re under stress right now and your hand is perfectly steady. You’re not haunted by the war, Doctor Watson. You miss it.” He leaned a little closer. “Welcome back,” he whispered, before turning away, an amused smile on his face as he twirled his umbrella. “Time to choose a side, Doctor Watson,” he called back. 

 

MESSAGES Greg Lestrade  
7.21pm: Your brother has a  
new friend. Any idea who he  
is?

 

MESSAGES  
7.45pm: Dr John Watson. Fifth  
Northumberland Fusiliers.  
Sherlock’s new flatmate. M

 

MESSAGES Greg Lestrade  
7.48pm: Can I trust him?

 

MESSAGES Mycroft Holmes  
7.51pm: Yes. M

 

It was a another text from Greg later that evening which alerted him to the news a man had been shot while Sherlock was in the vicinity. He travelled to the Roland Kerr Education College with Anthea. He glanced around at the police cars. “Well, they haven’t arrested him,” he muttered, glancing to where Sherlock was stood talking to John Watson. “So, I suppose he didn’t do the shooting.”

He frowned as his brother and Doctor Watson began to walk over, and his eyes flicked down to John’s hand, small specks of gunpowder on his fingers and on his coat.

“What are you doing here?” Sherlock snapped at him.

“As ever, I’m concerned about you,” Mycroft replied.

“Yes, I’ve been hearing about your ‘concern’.”

Mycroft rolled his eyes. “Always so aggressive. Did it never occur to you that you and I belong on the same side?”

“Oddly enough, no.”

“We have more in common than you like to believe. This petty feud between us is simply childish. People will suffer. And you know how it always upset mummy.”

“ _I_  upset her? Me? It wasn’t me that upset her, Mycroft.”

Mycroft narrowed his eyes at him, watching as Sherlock explained their family connection to Doctor Watson. He watched them leave together.

“Interesting, that soldier fellow,” Mycroft said to Anthea. “He could be the making of my brother – or make him worse than ever. Either way, we’d better upgrade their surveillance status. Grade three, active.” He looked up at the sound of footsteps behind him. “Good evening,” he said, as Greg drew closer.

Greg smiled. “Night. Not used to seeing you at my crime scenes. Hi, Anthea.”

“Hello,” she said tightly, getting into the car.

Mycroft paused for a moment, waiting for her to shut the door. “All a very curious case,” he said, leaning against his umbrella.

Greg nodded. “Pretty interesting, yeah. I didn’t want it at first, but now it just looks like a big old tick next to my name. Four solved murders to our department. All good for the statistics.”

“Don’t pretend it’s just statistics to you, Greg. I know it means more to you than that.”

Greg smiled. “I know. But that’s what keeps me in my job.”

Mycroft bit his lip. “What did you make of Sherlock’s Doctor Watson?”

“Seems an alright bloke,” Greg said. “Doesn’t take any of his crap, so I’d say he’s the good sort.”

“He’s moving into 221b with him.”

“I know. It’s a nice flat. Well, with Sherlock’s usual mess.”

“He and I haven’t been on good terms recently,” Mycroft said.

“You know what he’s like.”

Mycroft sighed. “Yes, indeed.”

“So, did you test him?” Greg asked. “Try to give him money?”

“Yes, and he did not accept.”

Greg nodded. “Anything I need to know?”

“No. I shouldn’t think so. Well.” Mycroft paused, considering the gunpowder. Greg’s inclination would immediately be to take John in for questioning. “Perhaps another time,” he finally said.

“What’s wrong?”

“It should wait, I’m afraid. Until Doctor Watson proves his use to you.”

“His use to me? What’s he got to prove to me?”

“I don’t know yet.” Greg nodded and leaned against the car. “Would you like to have dinner in February?” Mycroft asked.

Greg nodded. “Yeah, whenever. I’m up for that.”

Mycroft forced a smile. “Well, I suppose I had better get back. Lovely to see you, Greg.”

Greg smiled at him. “Yeah. You too.”

He didn’t know, Mycroft thought as he studied him. Not about his wife. He reached out and squeezed Greg’s shoulder. He’d find out eventually. He slid into the car and asked to be taken home.

* * *

**February 2010.**

**Location: The Coeur de Lion Offices, Mayfair, London.**

John Watson was blogging about Sherlock. Mycroft had a warning letter sent to 221b, demanding all names be blacked out for matters relating to national security. He didn’t sign it from himself.

“I know it was you,” Sherlock snarled down the phone at him, the day it was delivered.

“Just have him remove the names, Sherlock,” Mycroft said, rolling his eyes. “Black out every name connected to myself and the Metropolitan Police. Now, this Moriarty…”

“It’s nothing to do with you,” Sherlock snapped and hung up. Mycroft let out an exasperated breath.

Nonetheless, Doctor Watson did as he was bid. In return, Mycroft ensured John’s gun was legally registered.

After an exhausting evening trying to force Sherlock into working with him, Mycroft invited Greg to dinner.

  
From: Lestrade, Greg  
Subject: Re: John Watson  
_Hi Mycroft,_  
_Dinner tomorrow night is perfect actually. Jane’s going out with some friends for a birthday so that’s perfect timing._  
_See you then._  
_Cheers,_  
_Greg_

 

Mycroft frowned as he read the message. He reached for his phone, about to ask Anthea to keep an eye on who Jane Lestrade was with that evening. He hesitated.

When had that happened? he wondered. When had he changed from the man who abhorred invasion of privacy to the man who would stalk his former lover’s wife via CCTV? He dropped his hand. Instead he told Anthea to lower Greg’s surveillance level to the lowest setting. He told her to remove Jane Lestrade from the list altogether.

“We shouldn’t be wasting our resources on a schoolteacher,” he remarked.

The next evening, he took the car to Greg’s flat to pick him up. “I’ve been so busy I don’t feel like I’ve had a proper meal for ages,” Greg told him.

Mycroft studied him. It was true that he looked tired, but not as exhausted as Mycroft had seen him before, when he had been struggling with nightmares. “Is everything alright?” he asked.

“Yeah, it’s fine,” Greg said. “It’s just busy. We had that suicide killer which took a lot of our time. And then we had a few others Sherlock worked out a few weeks ago that we had to pull together when we had the resources. Then I went to court to give evidence, and had to do even more paperwork. It’s been a long month.”

“I don’t imagine it’s ever truly quiet.”

Greg laughed. “That’s true. Just busier than usual, I guess. Things get backed up during Christmas when court isn’t in session and stuff, so there’s always more to do in January.”

Mycroft nodded. “I understand.” He glanced up as they reached the Argentinian restaurant. “We’re here.” He walked in, holding the door open for Greg. “Table for two,” he said. “Holmes.”

“This is amazing,” Greg said, looking around.

Mycroft nodded as they were led to a table. “I assume you still sell the Columbia Crest Cabernet Sauvignon?” Mycroft asked the maitre d.

She nodded. “We do.”

“Very good. A bottle of that, please.”

“Yes, sir,” she replied before walking away.

“Been here before then?” Greg asked.

“I have. But I’ve been looking for a reason to return. The steaks are exquisite. Can I make a recommendation?”

“Please do.”

Mycroft reached out and touched his finger to Greg’s menu. “Choose the Media Luna de Vacio.”

“That’s the most expensive on there.”

“And with good reason. Think of it as a very belated birthday meal if you’d like.”

Greg laughed and closed his menu. “Fine. If that’s what you recommend, that’s what I’ll have.”

“An excellent choice,” Mycroft said.

A waitress carried over the wine and poured a small amount out. Mycroft tasted it. Not corked. He nodded. “Thank you,” he said. “It’s fine.” He waited until she poured it out for them both. “We’ll both have the Media Luna de Vacio, please. Medium rare for me. Greg?”

“Yeah, the same.”

“The wine is marginally dryer than we usually have,” Mycroft explained as the waitress walked away. “But I promise, once you have the meat in front of you, you’ll notice the difference.”

“Are you into wine? I know you always choose it, but do you know loads about it?”

“I’ve invested in some fine wines,” Mycroft said. “But I’m not necessarily knowledgeable about them. I have a collection at our family home outside of London.”

Greg smiled. “Sounds like an amazing place.”

Mycroft nodded. “It’s very relaxing. I like London, but it’s nice to get away from it sometimes.”

“I don’t think I’d ever live anywhere but London.”

“Neither do I. But it is nice to get away.”

Greg sniffed his wine and had a sip. “Yeah, it’s a bit different to what you usually pick. It doesn’t go down so easily.”

Mycroft nodded. “You’ll enjoy it with the meat. How is Doctor Watson settling in?”

“Haven’t seen much of him if I’m honest. Only during the case and then when he and Sherlock came round to my office the next day. He seems like a good balancer for Sherlock.”

“I think he’ll only encourage Sherlock to become even more… Sherlock.”

Greg laughed. “There’s a scary thought. Maybe you’re right. I don’t know, I haven’t seen enough of him. But I enjoyed his blog.”

“Yes, I thought you might.”

“He seems to understand Sherlock though. He sees the things about him that only you and I see. He seems to understand why I bother, which is more than my team do.”

Mycroft smiled a little. “I’m glad to hear it.”

“It’s early days.”

“Yes. I’m making a concerted effort to stay out of Sherlock’s way for the next month or so.”

“Why’s that?”

Mycroft paused for a second, unfolding the napkin and placing it in his lap. “There’s something about Doctor Watson which makes me feel Sherlock is ready to take care of himself without my interfering. I thought I’d give them some time to consolidate their association with one another.”

Greg smiled. “Maybe I’ll do the same. Leave Sherlock to bother another policeman for a change. Oh. That reminds me.”

Mycroft frowned. “What’s that?”

Greg sighed. “I don’t know if this means anything to you or not. But apparently the suicide killer bloke, he was sponsored to do the killings.”

Mycroft frowned. “Sponsored?”

“By someone called Moriarty. Sherlock doesn’t know what it means, and I looked it up on the police database and nothing came up there either.”

Mycroft pressed his lips together. Moriarty. The name had been in John’s blog entry, although Sherlock wasn’t cooperating with him on giving him any information. “Moriarty. I can’t recall anyone by that name. Although…” He hesitated. _Mor_ iarty. Oh, God, he was getting slow.

“Mycroft?” Greg asked. “What’s going on?”

MORnetwork. “A small thought, that’s all,” Mycroft said, trying to smile. “One I’m not ready to share.”

Greg nodded. “Okay. But if it’s something I need to know...”

“I promise.”

Their steaks were brought over, cooked to perfection.

“Oh God,” Greg groaned, and Mycroft felt a little heat rise to his cheeks at that sound. “I’m in food heaven. Let me eat this and then kill me so this is the last thing I ever taste.”

Mycroft chuckled. “And what would be your preferred death?”

“I don’t know. Smother me with a steak or something.”

Mycroft laughed. Greg had a bite of his steak and groaned again, licking his lips. It should have been illegal. His sounds, his tongue… “That’s it,” Greg said. “If I was on Death Row, I would demand this was my last meal.”

Mycroft smiled, ducking his head down as he began to eat his own food.

“What would you choose?” Greg asked.

“What a difficult question. Perhaps the same.”

“With a good glass of wine?”

“Naturally.”

“So, come on,” Greg said. “Out with it. Are you going to fill me in on John Watson yet or not?”

Mycroft sighed. “Very well.” He looked up at him. “I believe he is the man who turned a gun on your serial killer.”

Greg stared at him, his eyes going wide. “You what?”

“I have taken all the necessary steps to ensure the gun he carries is both legal and registered.”

“Wait, hang on. John killed my serial killer?” Greg whispered.

“Yes. He had powder marks on his fingers that night. All rather obvious.”

Greg shook his head. “Bloody hell, Mycroft. What the hell am I supposed to do with that information?”

“Nothing at all. It has all been dealt with. Who pays any mind to the death of a serial killer, Greg? It’s one less person to go through the courts, one less person taking a space in jail. And I believe Doctor Watson was saving Sherlock’s life.”

He watched as Greg fell quiet. He had a few more bites of his meal, his brows knitted together. He clenched his jaw while he cut into his steak.

“Greg?” Mycroft murmured. “You do not need to struggle with this.”

“Yes, I do,” Greg said. “I don’t know why you’re so fine with it. I don’t know how any of you are fine with it.”

“It’s never ‘fine’. Sometimes you tolerate it.”

Greg snorted and shook his head. “What? And believe it’s part of some kind of greater good?”

“Perhaps. I don’t believe in-”

“-No, neither do I. I don’t know, Mycroft. I’ve seen you downright depressed because a load of people got killed and you felt partially responsible. I don’t know why you’re okay with it this time.”

“He was a serial killer,” Mycroft pointed out. “Is his life worth the same as those he killed? Sherlock was in danger.”

“Sherlock was in danger because he’s an idiot who was willing to take a poisoned pill.”

Mycroft leaned back in his seat. “Would you feel differently if the man had a gun pointed to Sherlock’s head?” he asked.

“I dunno. Maybe. What, are we having a moral debate here?”

Mycroft sipped his eyes. “Yes, I suppose we are.”

“Where’d you draw the line?” Greg asked. “I’m not sure. I’ve never shot to kill.”

“But you’ve shot?”

“I had training. I was a young officer in the '80s. That was when they started revoking a load of licenses. I never got one.”

Mycroft nodded. “Yes, there were a number of deaths in that period.”

“Yeah. So I had the training but that was around the time everything was stopping. Unusual now of course to carry a gun. I think last I heard it was between six and eight per cent of officers are trained in firearms. All forces have access to tasers now. But again, you’ve got to be trained in them.”

“Would you carry a gun? If it were decided that all capable and trained Detective Inspectors could carry if required, would you do it?”

“Not lightly. I’d trust myself to carry. But I’d really have to consider it, because you kill someone and you’re living with that forever. I mean, come on. I still think about the people who got killed by serial killers I didn’t catch fast enough.”

“A ridiculous thing to worry about, if you don’t mind my saying.”

Greg snorted. “I mind a bit, but I won’t pull you up on it. You ever shot a gun?”

“Yes.”

“In an actual situation?”

“Yes.”

Greg looked at him. “Shot to kill?”

Mycroft nodded once. “I have.”

“How’d you live with it?”

“It was me or him. I chose myself.”

“Do you think about it?”

“No.”

Greg nodded. “Maybe that’s the difference. I can’t switch off like that.”

“You care too much.”

Greg frowned. “Is that so bad?”

“It can be a distinct disadvantage to be so emotional.”

“I’m not emotional. I just care about people’s lives.” Greg leaned on the table, holding his eyes. Mycroft felt his mouth go dry. “I think you do too, actually,” Greg told him. “I think you act like you don’t, but I’ve seen you affected by it. Maybe for not as long as the average person. Maybe you detach yourself quicker than I do, but that doesn’t mean it doesn’t bother you.”

Mycroft thought better of telling him that no, failure affected him far more than another person’s death. “Are you better or worse at your job because you care so much?” he asked instead.

“Better. I give a damn. I want to go out and solve the crime, because that person who was murdered deserved better than that.”

“And when you have nightmares? What then?”

Greg shrugged. “I’m used to it.”

“But if you were cold and detached then perhaps you could go home with a clear conscience and sleep at night.”

“Do you sleep at night? Always?”

Mycroft pressed his lips together. He struggled, sometimes. Some lives were easy to take. Some lives, like Dadua Reza's, deserved to be taken for the good of the world. Some decisions weren’t easy. Some… One, haunted him. He pushed the thought away.

“See?” Greg said. “Doesn’t matter what way you cope with it, if you care even a little bit then sometimes you can’t sleep at night. No one’s life is worth so little that you can point a gun at them and blow their brains out and say ‘ah well, had it coming’. Maybe Sherlock could. I don’t think you can.”

“What makes you think I am any different to my brother?” Mycroft asked.

“Are you serious? C’mon. I know you. Things affect you. About 99 per cent of people you know probably don’t even realise it. You know, actually, I reckon both you and Sherlock care. And I think it drives you both crazy that there isn’t an off-switch. That maybe you can turn it down, and you can turn it down for years, but it’s never off permanently.”

“And you wouldn’t choose to live like that?”

“No. Even when I don’t sleep at night. Even when I have nightmares until I’m so tired I just can’t have them anymore. I wouldn’t change it.”

“And when people hurt you.” Mycroft licked his lips. He hesitated for a second and then asked the question. “When Caroline cheated on you, for instance. Did you never wish that you could stop caring and make it stop?”

Greg nodded. “Yeah, I wished it. But if a genie came up to me and said, ‘hey, Greg. I can make all that pain go away’, would I do it? Nah. Not for any money. You’re a head person. You think things through, analyse every possibility. Me? I act first, think about it about half-way through. And by then it’s generally too late anyway.”

“And yet you protect yourself by not talking about your feelings. You don’t share the stories of your life with people.”

“No, that’s wrong. I don’t share my life stories with just anyone. But sometimes you have to just let it go and talk about it.”

“And you found that? With Jane?”

Greg bit his lip and drank his wine. “We’ve been married a couple of years. Ask me in 10 and then we’ll see.”

Mycroft raised his eyebrows. Something was very wrong with their marriage if Greg thought it would take that long for him to open up to his wife. “And what of John?” Mycroft asked.

Greg shrugged. “Don’t have a choice, do I?”

“Why not?”

“I want what’s best for Sherlock. And if that bloke had a gun pointed to his head then… then yeah. I’d live with it fairly easily. Is the pill really so different? With Sherlock’s brain and his need to prove he’s right all the time, then yeah. I guess it’s just like he had a gun to his head. But I don’t like it.”

“I imagine the pair of them will cause you a significant amount of trouble, but I suspect you will welcome it all the same.”

“Yeah, I bet I will,” Greg said. “As long as you’re around, alright? Keep an eye on us all in the background.”

“I give my word.”

Greg nodded. “I kind of like it. Knowing you’re there checking everything’s okay.” Greg met Mycroft’s eyes. “I feel like we’re going to need it.”

“Yes, I imagine so.”

Greg laughed and finished his food. “Damn. I just realised I meant to bring your books round. I finished the last one last night. I know I’ve had them about a year, but I hardly get the time to read them, and then when I do have the time, I’m exhausted.”

“It’s fine, no problem at all. I’ll find some others for you to enjoy.”

Greg smiled. “Thanks.”

“How is Jane?” Mycroft asked, hoping he sounded casual.

“She’s good thanks,” Greg said. “She’s really good. She’s the new year three coordinator, so she’s got a bit of a payrise and extra responsibilities. She seems to really enjoy it.”

Mycroft nodded. “And no plans for children of your own?”

“No. None at all.”

Mycroft glanced at him. “I wondered that when you found out about your birth parents you may have changed your mind. I always felt that was what was holding you back.”

“No, it doesn’t make any difference. I haven’t really looked at the files either to be honest.”

“They are always there if you want them.”

“Exactly,” Greg agreed. “And I’m really grateful for all the trouble you went to.”

“It was no trouble. If you ever need a favour from me, you know I am only a phone call away. Unless I’m overseas in an important meeting, but I do listen to my voicemail.”

Greg laughed. “Handy to know.”

Mycroft smiled across at him. “Keep me informed, Greg. I don’t mean for you to spy on Sherlock, but without resorting to more clandestine measures, I fear you are the only contact I have.”

“I’ll share what I think you need to know. I guess it’s alright. Because Sherlock knows I talk to you.”

Mycroft nodded. “Indeed, and he trusts you regardless.”

“Means a lot to you, doesn’t it?” Greg said. “Trusting people.”

“Yes. I know so many people who spy on others for money.”

Greg laughed. “So as long as I’m spying but with no cash, it’s alright?”

“It’s hardly spying. But we can certainly take better care of one another if we know the ins and outs of what’s going on.”

The waitress walked over and took their plates. “Would you like anything else?” she asked.

“The bill,” Mycroft said. “Please.”

“Of course.”

“I’ll buy our next meal,” Greg said.

“Of course. I always enjoy our conversations. I have to return to work afterwards. I have a flight scheduled for a meeting in Russia.”

Greg pulled a face. “Lucky you.”

“Yes. Quite. I’ll be back later this month.” Mycroft flicked though the cash in his wallet and handed it over. He put his coat on and patted his stomach. “I feel rather too well fed.”

Greg laughed. “Me too.”

Mycroft smiled and led him out,

“That was amazing,” Greg said. “Can we go there again another time?”

“Of course.”

Greg smiled at him. And then it felt, just a fraction, his brows furrowed.

“Is something bothering you, Greg?” Mycroft asked.

“No. No, it’s fine. Thanks though.”

“The final contract from the negotiation made on my birthday was completed yesterday. I wanted to thank you for your involvement.”

Greg snorted. “Was that the woman who thought we were married?”

“Yes. I hate to correct her. She has a romantic streak it’s vital to appeal to. She thought I was married to Anthea until I revealed my sexuality to her.”

Greg grinned. “You should take me to more negotiations if they go that well when I’m there.”

“Yes, perhaps I should.”

Greg laughed. “Or maybe not. I think I’d destroy half the world if I spent 10 minutes in your seat.”

“Not half as quickly as Sherlock would destroy it,” Mycroft smiled. “Which is, of course, the more alarming thought.”

“Cheers for dinner,” Greg said when the car stopped in Petty France. “Let me know when you’re free to do this again.”

“Greg?”

“Yeah?”

“I hope you’re aware you paved the way for Doctor Watson. Sherlock would never have found any space in his life for him without you.”

Greg stared at him. “Really?”

Mycroft nodded. “Yes. Definitely.”

“Thank you. It’s quite nice actually. Thinking he’s responsible for himself now.”

Mycroft raised his eyebrows, but he couldn’t help smile. “Well, that is another alarming thought. Goodnight, Greg.”

Greg grinned at him. “Night,” he said before getting out of the car. Mycroft watched him go.

A feeling of dread came over him as he thought back to Moriarty while on his way to the airport. He rang Anthea. “Put his surveillance level back up to three,” he said.

“Whose?”

“Greg Lestrade’s.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Thank you.” He hung up and told Max to drive.

But fear lingered. He couldn’t shake it. He sat and he contemplated and he tried to muddle through it. Sherlock loved the game, but Mycroft loved to be in control. He could feel their worlds colliding. A threat hovering. A shadow watching. As perhaps it had been watching for five years now.

And Sherlock was collecting strays. An abused wife, an army doctor with PTSD, a lonely pathologist, a policeman with no family connections.

Mycroft could see it already. That friendship forming between Sherlock and John. For all Sherlock told the world that he was a high-functioning sociopath, he was kidding himself. It had happened to Mycroft before, when he fell in love with Greg Lestrade. He had invited weakness into his life. He’d nearly got Greg killed in the process. Sherlock was at risk of doing the same.

And if Mycroft had learnt anything at all in the past year, it was that appearing cold and hard was the only way to survive. Greg and Sherlock, and perhaps to some extent Anthea, would always be his weaknesses. But no one else needed to know that.

And if Sherlock was going to weaken himself, then Mycroft had to make himself stronger in turn. Because although he trusted his mind over feelings and intuition, he felt the darkness creeping in. He knew something was coming. Something that had been building for a long time. And he had a feeling it wasn’t after him. It was going after Sherlock. And all of Sherlock’s strays.


	48. The Bomber

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's fair to say that none of these canon chapters would be possible without the transcipts from here: http://arianedevere.livejournal.com/

**February 2010.**

**Location: Moscow, Russia.**

He shivered, pulling his coat more tightly around himself as he sat at the desk. He rubbed his hands together and had another sip of his tea. He glanced up at the knock on the door, and Jim Braum walked in a moment later. “They’ve found you another room, boss,” he said.

“Finally,” Mycroft muttered, standing up and closing his laptop. The heater in his hotel room had been broken since he returned at lunchtime after some meetings. It hadn’t taken long for the temperature to plummet, until he could see his own breath on the air. The managers had tried to fix the heater and then were forced to find another room for him. Jim picked his suitcase up and led him down the hallway.

“It’s just a couple of doors down,” he said, swiping a card and opening the door. He stopped in his tracks.

“Jim?” Mycroft asked, frowning at his abrupt halt.

“You’re in the wrong room,” Jim said to someone in the room.

Mycroft frowned and peered over his shoulder. “It’s alright,” he murmured, looking at the dark-haired man sitting on the settee. “I know who that is.”

Jim kept his shoulders squared, his hand instinctively reaching down to where he kept his weapon.

“It’s fine,” Mycroft said again. “Stand down.” He took a step past Jim and walked into the room. “I assume you’re responsible for my broken heater,” he said to the man in Russian, taking a seat on the settee.

Jim shut the door and remained stood by it. The Russian spy glanced at him and then at Jim. “You can trust Jim,” Mycroft said. “You went to a lot of effort to find me.”

Pavel Makeev, a man who had sold several Russian secrets to Mycroft down the years, smiled. “You’re a hard man to find,” he replied.

“Hardly.”

“Fine, you’re a hard man to pin down when no one’s following you.”

Mycroft frowned. “Who’s following me?”

“I don’t know.”

“You’re talking in riddles,” Mycroft said in English. “I don’t waste time talking to people who won’t speak plainly.”

“You’ve been talking to the Russian Government.”

“No,” Mycroft said, returning back to Russian. “British politicians have been talking to the Russian Government. I was there to… assist.”

“Did you get what you wanted?”

“No.” Mycroft smiled a little sardonically. “But neither did they.”

“Did they tell you about the crimes?”

Mycroft frowned, sitting back in his chair. “What crimes?”

“That’s a no then.” Pavel paused for a moment. “We’ve been picking up on it for more than a year. An organised crime syndicate. It’s been working for the Russian Government, but for far more than 12 months. The signs indicate its stretching out its tentacles.”

Mycroft narrowed his eyes. “Does it have a name?”

“No. Well. There are whispers, but nothing concrete. One word, over and over: Moriarty.”

Mycroft took a breath. “Why are you telling me this?”

“The tentacles are reaching London. I thought you ought to know. Let’s call it even now, shall we? You saved my life once, and now I’m doing you a favour.”

Mycroft nodded. “You never owed me anything,” he said. “Anyone would have done what I did in helping you escape.”

“Good. Because I can’t tell you anything more.”

“You can’t simply tell me about a crime syndicate and then just…” He frowned, studying him. “You’re afraid.”

“Everyone’s afraid,” Pavel murmured. “Why do you think I was so careful in trying to arrange this meeting? There are eyes everywhere. And no one knows what they want. They just cause… chaos.” Pavel stood up. “Be on your guard. No one knows what’s next. But one thing is clear. He likes to make things explode.”

Mycroft nodded slowly. “Thank you,” he said softly. “Look after yourself.”

“I’m leaving Russia tonight. One way or another, don’t expect to hear from me again.”

“What about him scares you so much?” Mycroft asked.

“Goodbye, Mycroft Holmes,” he simply said.

Mycroft watched as Pavel walked past Jim and left the hotel. Mycroft sat back in his chair and frowned.

“Do you need me to do anything, boss?” Jim asked.

Mycroft shook his head. “No,” he said softly. “No, I don’t.”

* * *

He spent two days in South Korea. The elections were coming up. Along with ambassadors from Britain, he began to make requests and demands for how the newly-elected Government would work alongside Britain and in forcing North Korea to abandon its nuclear programme.

He was exhausted when he returned to London, his sleep patterns disrupted.

* * *

**March 2010.**

**Location: Chequers Court, Buckinghamshire.**

An invitation to the Prime Minister’s country retreat was not one Mycroft could refuse. Although he dreaded the monotony of informal meetings and endless socialising, he was too curious not to attend.

Most of the invitations had gone out to Cabinet members, all preparing for the upcoming General Election. Battle lines were being drawn, manifesto policies confirmed, target seats being selected. Those plans were not for Mycroft’s eyes, though he could not avoid hearing about them.

He was there in his role as a Civil Servant, available for questioning on Government policies and bills - those that had passed and those which had not. Mycroft had gone from the Prime Minister’s most despised employee to a man he trusted to run the security services. And in that position, he knew he had more power in the tips of his fingers than any of them realised.

There was a gathering on the final night. A black tie affair with a meal before drinks. More guests had arrived for the final portion of the evening. Including, Mycroft noted, Charles Augustus Magnussen, newspaper proprietor. His newspapers, tabloids all, had been supportive of the Labour Party in the previous two elections. Clearly the Prime Minister had invited him to keep him on side.

Mycroft studied Magnussen from across the room. There was something about his movements, purposeful, contrived. He talked with a low voice, slow, the sounds slithering out of him. But he was a smoker, Mycroft noted, glancing at the stains on his fingers. All men had a vice. Mycroft watched him until his fingers began to twitch and Mycroft took a step out into the gardens, retrieving his own cigarettes.

Just a minute later, as if on cue, after his first inhale Magnussen was stood out beside him, taking a drag on his own.

“You’re not familiar to me,” Magnussen said.

Mycroft stared out into the gardens. “I’m not one of the Prime Minister’s men,” he replied.

“No one will disclose what exactly it is you do. You are not a member of a political party. Nor a member of the political elite. You are… largely irrelevant, and yet you are here. I can only deduce there is more to you than… meets the eye.”

“I presume you are here to see what the Government will do for you, if they are re-elected,” Mycroft said, ignoring the implication.

Magnussen smirked, tapping the ash from his long cigarette. “Ask not what your country can do for you, but what you can do for your country.”

Mycroft raised his eyebrows. “A Dane, quoting an American President regarding British politics.”

“Great Britain is now my country. I spend much of my time here these days.”

“I am given to suspect your newspapers will not be supporting the Labour Party in May.”

Magnussen glanced at him. “What makes you say that?”

“It’s just a guess,” Mycroft told him. “But I think you find the Prime Minister, on the whole, not entirely supportive of your brand of journalism.”

“I own the papers, I do not write them.”

“Of course,” Mycroft murmured.

Magnussen smiled darkly, stamping out his cigarette onto a cherub sculpture. “Until we meet again. Mr Holmes.”

Mycroft frowned and watched him go, finishing off his own cigarette. When he returned to the room, Magnussen had already left and the Prime Minister appeared to be positively fuming at the snub.

Mycroft glanced around at the MPs in attendance. They were preoccupied in their own dealings now. He left the gathering, knowing most of them would not even remember he was there. And that was just fine.

* * *

Mycroft was preparing his dinner when a red Watchtower alert beeped on his phone. He glanced at it. An explosion. Baker Street.

He tried Sherlock’s phone first, and to his relief, his brother answered after just two rings. “That was quick,” Sherlock remarked. “It only happened two minutes ago.”

“I can only assume you’re… unaffected.”

“It was over the street,” Sherlock replied. “I assume you’re going to make a nuisance of yourself now?”

“Well, since you’re alright, perhaps you might assist me in finding out-”

Sherlock laughed and then hung up. Mycroft rolled his eyes and called for the car. He winced at the sudden pain in his tooth. It had been bothering him for two days, but he’d tried to ignore it so far. He simply did not have time to go to the dentist. He rang Greg while he was en-route to the scene. “Sherlock is alive and well,” Mycroft informed him. “But I do have a team on its way to investigate. Would you please oversee your policemen and ensure it all goes smoothly? I know relations between the Metropolitan Police and MI5 are not always cordial.”

“Yeah, I’ll head there now,” Greg replied. “Are you going?”

“Yes.”

“I’m on my way now.”

“I have added you to the official emergency liaison list.”

“What’s that?” Greg asked.

“Myself, you and an MI5 explosives expert.”

“You think it’s a bomb?”

“After last time, I am taking no chances.”

“Yeah. Yeah, got that one right. I’m getting in the car, I’ll see you as soon as I can.”

“Thank you,” Mycroft said. He stepped out of the car, glancing at the fire, and the hole where people’s homes had once been. He walked towards some of the police officers already on the scene and flashed his card. “Any casualties?” he asked.

“No. The building was empty apparently.”

Mycroft frowned. “Empty? Where were the occupants?”

“Not our priority at the moment.”

Mycroft nodded and narrowed his eyes as he assessed the damage. He looked over his shoulder at the sound of footsteps. Greg was walking towards him. “How many casualties?” Greg asked.

“None, remarkably.”

“Really?” 

“Yes, really. It won’t be for another couple of hours until we will be able to assess the property. We’re not ruling out terrorist involvement, although there was no hint of an attack on any part of London this particular evening.”

“Just this one evening with no attack?” Greg snorted. “Comforting, Mycroft. Alright, I need to go see what I can do to help.”

Mycroft nodded. “I’ll be in the area,” he said. He slipped back into the car and called Anthea. “There are rumours of bombs and gas leaks,” he said. “No one is confirming anything at present.” He looked out of the window. “They’re bringing the blaze under control. We should be able to send someone inside in the next hour or two.”

“We’re checking with MI5 and MI6,” Anthea said. “No one is claiming responsibility for a bomb. And so far, no evidence an attack in London was imminent. Could it be a gas leak?”

“Yes,” Mycroft replied. “If it were anywhere else in London, I would have said certainly. But this is Baker Street.”

“Sherlock.”

“Yes. Thank you, Anthea.” He hung up and did some work on his laptop for a while. Malcolm drove him to a shop so he could get some painkillers for his tooth. They drove back to the scene. Eventually he got out of the car, frowning as he wandered over to a fire investigator, who was arguing with a bomb expert from MI5.

“Problem?” he asked.

“It’s a fire,” the investigator said. “My job is to investigate fires.”

“It may have been a bomb,” Mycroft said. “And his job is to investigate bombs.” Mycroft turned to the MI5 expert. “Go right ahead,” he murmured. “And report directly to me.”

“Yes, sir,” the man said, putting a mask on over his face.

Mycroft smiled coolly at the fire investigator. “You can have your turn when the proper authorities have concluded their investigations.”

“I am the proper bloody authorities…”

“What’s going on?” Greg asked as he joined them.

“A minor dispute over whose investigation it is,” Mycroft informed him. “One of our experts is already inside.”

They looked up as the expert walked out a few minutes later, carrying a metal box. Mycroft glanced at Greg who stared back quizzically. They walked up to the MI5 expert together.

“Found this inside,” the expert said. He opened the lid. Inside was a white envelope, the name Sherlock Holmes written across the front. It was a Bohemian envelope, the name written by a woman in a fountain pen. He pressed his lips together. A Parker Duofold pen, with an iridium nib.

“Very well,” Mycroft murmured. “What is your assessment?”

“Made to look like a gas leak,” the expert said. “It’s not.”

Mycroft nodded. “I will leave this in your capable hands, Detective Inspector.”

Greg stared at him. “My hands? Have you seen what that says?”

Mycroft raised an eyebrow. “I can read, Inspector. It’s addressed to Sherlock. I’m sure he can shed some light on the matter.” He turned and began to walk away.

“Aren’t you even curious?” Greg called after him.

“Not as curious as Sherlock will be,” Mycroft replied as he opened the car door. “Keep an eye on Sherlock?”

“Always do.”

Mycroft nodded to him and got into the car. He could let Sherlock do the legwork on this one, he supposed. It would keep it in as few hands as possible.

“It was a gas leak,” Mycroft lied to Oliver Cale from The Times when he rang him.

“Really?”

“Yes,” Mycroft insisted, impatient. “There’s nothing more to it, I’m afraid. No causalities either.”

“Alright. Thanks anyway.”

“Goodnight, Oliver,” Mycroft replied, ending the call.

He ate a little food and had a restless night’s sleep, the pain in his tooth causing him to wake up several times. When he woke at 4am, it was because of a phone call from Anthea.

“Yes?” he asked, sitting up and rubbing his eyes.

“A civil servant has been found dead on the tracks at Battersea,” she told him. “His name was Andrew West.”

“Andrew West,” Mycroft murmured, racking his brains. “He was involved on the Bruce-Partington programme.” He sighed and pulled the covers back. “I’ll be in the office in 45 minutes. I want everything ready by the time I get in.”

“Yes, sir.”

Mycroft hung up and stretched. He had a shower and shaved, still exhausted as he brushed his teeth and dressed. He arrived at the Coeur de Lion Offices to find Hugh Seagroves sat at Anthea’s desk, wringing his hands.

“Don’t tell me,” Mycroft muttered as he stared at him. “Something dreadful happened and I’m the only one who can put it right.”

“There was a memory stick with the…” Hugh groaned and ran a hand through his thinning hair. “Bloody… the… Oh God.”

Mycroft narrowed his eyes. “Don’t tell me.”

“The Bruce-Partington plans are missing.”

“Oh for goodness sake,” Mycroft snapped.

“Well, _I_ didn’t put them on a memory stick!” Hugh insisted. “Westie must have taken them.”

“Westie.”

“Andrew West.”

Mycroft shook his head. “I can’t fathom the stupidity of you people.”

“This can’t get out. No one can know. Mycroft. We need as few people finding out about this as possible. Especially after that thing in 2008 where the national security documents were found on a train…” Mycroft glared at him. “Anyway, will you sort it?” Hugh asked.

Mycroft sighed. “Fine.” He looked up as Anthea entered her office, carrying some papers.

“This is everything so far,” she said. “Not a lot. He had his head smashed in. But they didn’t find a memory stick at the scene. Not a lot of blood either.”

Mycroft glanced at Hugh and then back at Anthea. He rolled his eyes and stormed out to his own office. As though he didn’t have enough to concern himself with, without this incompetence surrounding him. How did these people ever get along without him to clean up their mess?

He’d give it to Sherlock, he decided. Sherlock was better than any policeman, and it would prevent the news getting out too far. He didn’t trust the police, with the exception of Greg, to keep the news of the plans going missing a secret.

He travelled to Baker Street that morning. He let himself into the building and walked upstairs, where he found Sherlock tuning his violin.

“A bit cold in here, isn’t it?” Mycroft murmured, walking through the room to the windows, now without their glass following the explosion.

“What are you doing here?” Sherlock asked.

“I have a case I would like you to take.”

He turned to Sherlock, who was ignoring him, still fiddling with the dials on his violin. Mycroft winced at the sharp pain from his tooth and touched the side of his face. “You’re not busy,” Mycroft said, studying the back of his head and then the bullet holes in the wall.

“I’m very busy.”

Mycroft rolled his eyes and went to take a seat opposite him. “We should be working together,” he said. “We both have valuable information. We should share it.”

Sherlock snorted. “Share information? You don’t share information.”

“I could, perhaps, relating to this Moriarty fellow.”

“You don’t know any more about Moriarty than I do,” Sherlock pointed out. Mycroft frowned, hating how true that was.

“It was a clerk at MI6,” Mycroft said. “Found at Battersea with his head bashed in, but no Oyster card or train ticket on the body. It is believed he had a memory stick with top secret plans relating to a missile defence system. I would be… indebted to you, if you would solve the case.” He looked round as John Watson entered the room.

“I can’t,” Sherlock replied.

“Can’t?” 

“The stuff I’ve got on is just too big. I can’t spare the time.”

“Never mind your usual trivia. This is of national importance.” He frowned. “Perhaps you can get through to him, John. I’m afraid my brother can be very intransigent.” 

“If you’re so keen, why don’t you investigate it?” Sherlock asked. 

“I can’t possibly be away from the office for any length of time – not with the Korean elections so…” He smiled. “Well, you don’t need to know about that, do you? Besides, a case like this – it requires… legwork.” He frowned and stood up. “You’ve got to find those plans, Sherlock. Don’t make me order you.”

Sherlock looked up at him, holding his eyes. “I’d like to see you try.”

“Think it over,” he said.

* * *

Apparently Sherlock had decided to no thinking at all. Throughout the afternoon, while he read reports relating to the gas leak (definitely not a gas leak), he text his brother for updates. None were forthcoming. 

  
MESSAGES  
12:02pm: Any news on Andrew West? M

 

MESSAGES  
1.17pm: How is the investigation?  
M

 

MESSAGES  
1.29pm: Sherlock. Don’t play games. M

 

MESSAGES  
2.38pm: This is a serious investigation.

 

MESSAGES  
3.06pm: Now is not the time to be a child. M

 

MESSAGES  
3.56pm: Have you found the memory stick? M

 

“What in God’s name is he doing?” Mycroft snapped, checking his phone again.

“Sir?” Anthea asked, hesitating by his office door.

“Sherlock. Where is he?”

“He was at New Scotland Yard this morning. His phone record indicates he received a call from the Yard just after you left Baker Street this morning. He visited the Yard then returned to Baker Street. He then went to St Bart’s, which is where he is now.”

Mycroft frowned. “The only person at New Scotland Yard who would make contact with Sherlock is Greg Lestrade. There must be logs at St Bartholomew’s. Find out what it is, exactly, that he’s working on, would you?”

 

MESSAGES  
4.12pm: I understand you visited New  
Scotland Yard. What was in the  
envelope? DI Lestrade has yet to  
contact me. M

 

MESSAGES  
4.31pm: Reply. M

 

MESSAGES  
5.06pm: Re: Bruce Partington plans.  
Any progress on Andrew  
West’s death? M

 

It took until the afternoon for Watchtower to update to say the police were looking for a hostage victim. Mycroft frowned, reading the update. It had been on the police’s radar for most of the day, but the details were only just been typed into the police system. Mycroft frowned as he read through the scant details. It was Sergeant Donovan’s report, but she had clearly kept a lot back. Or Greg had told her to keep it back.

Mycroft could only assume Sherlock was working on the case, in which case Greg was putting his trust in him but was being forced to hide much of the investigation.

 

MESSAGES Greg Lestrade  
5.41pm: Might have a situation.  
Possible hostage, relying on SH  
to sort it. Advice?

 

MESSAGES  
5.43pm: He will work it out. M

 

Finally, finally, John Watson got in contact regarding Andrew West. Mycroft told him the address to his Whitehall office, and Anthea showed him in. When Mycroft finally arrived, John was sat at his desk, dressed, rather unusually, in a tie.

 _He thinks he’s on official business_ , Mycroft thought with some amusement. He was nothing more than Sherlock’s lacky in reality. But Mycroft supposed it was better than Sherlock ignoring the matter entirely.

“Your brother sent me to collect more facts about the stolen plans, the missile plans,” John explained.

“Did he?” 

“Yes.” Mycroft leaned against the desk, staring down at him. “He’s investigating now. He’s, er, investigating away.”

Lie. Mycroft knew it immediately. But he filled John in on the case regardless.

“How did he end up with a bashed-in brain on the tracks at Battersea?” Mycroft pondered. “That is the question. The one I was rather hoping Sherlock would provide an answer to. How’s he getting on?”

“He-he’s fine, yes. Oh, and-and it is going. Very well. It’s, um, you know, he’s completely focused on it.”

Mycroft raised his eyebrows. “Well, run along then. I’m sure Sherlock’s dying for this extra information.”

“Right,” John agreed. “Absolutely. He doesn’t stop.”

“Mmm. John. This hostage. Is it all in hand?”

John frowned. “What? Yeah. Yes, yeah, of course it is.”

Mycroft nodded and took his seat. “So Sherlock is working on it.”

John paused for a moment. “The er… he’s totally focused on the missile plans. Completely.”

Mycroft rolled his eyes and reached for the Ibroprofen on his desk. John didn’t move. Mycroft glanced up at him. “Go,” he said softly.

John nodded and pushed the chair back. “Right,” he said, before walking to the door.

 

MESSAGES Greg Lestrade  
7.56pm: This is taking too long.  
We’ve got 4 hours to go.

 

MESSAGES Mycroft Holmes  
7.58pm: He will work it out, I  
promise. M

 

An hour went by as Mycroft sat at the Diogenes. A targeted explosion in Baker Street. Everything pointed to Moriarty. The faceless name, a criminal mastermind. The head of a terrorist organisation or something worse, if that were possible. It was terror not just to incite fear but to maintain it. And it was fear for the sake of it. As far as Mycroft could tell, he didn’t want to force the world to adhere to some sort of ideology.

He wanted… Well, what did he want? Power seemed likely, but he was just a name, a whisper. He was fear. His very name was fear in those who had heard it. But fear by itself didn’t bring about anything physical.

He glanced at his phone and received an alert that Sherlock had updated his blog. He frowned as he read the latest post. _FOUND. Pair of trainers belonging to Carl Powers (1978-1989). Botulinum toxin still present. Apply 221b Baker St._

* * *

**July 1989.**

**Location: The Holmes cottage, Gloucestershire.**

_Sherlock had locked himself in his room. Mycroft had returned from university three days earlier, and he’d only seen his brother twice._

_“It’s not unusual,” his mother explained as she pulled some weeds out from the flower pots. “He makes a lot of noise, but doesn’t make an appearance except for dinner.”_

_Mycroft frowned. “Noise?” he asked._

_“Oh, some sort of experiments, who knows. I dread to think.”_

_Mycroft left Sherlock to it. He had his own reading and work to do. Studying Law was time-consuming, but rewarding. He enjoyed what he did. He didn’t find it as challenging as his peers did, but that was hardly surprising._

_In truth, he was ready to go back to Oxford. When he’d last been there, a cox from the rowing team had stolen a kiss from him. It wasn’t his first kiss, but it was the first with any real promise behind it. It was the first proper kiss, not smeared or rushed or pressuring._

_Mycroft smiled a little to himself as his pen hovered over his paper. He’d felt… wanted, somehow. Which was a new experience, but not unwelcome. Oliver Cale had told Mycroft that Ethan was rather too tall to be a cox, but he was the best in the business. Oliver was on the second team. Oliver had been the one to introduce Mycroft to Ethan._

_But as charming as Oliver was, his muscled arms had never been quite as appealing as Ethan’s cheeky smile and his shouting at the top of his lungs as the rowers powered the boat down the river._

_Mycroft glanced up as the door to his bedroom opened. Sherlock stood there, hair unruly, not cut for weeks on end. It was falling into his eyes, and it made him look almost wild. He’d blown off half an eyebrow conducting an experiment, and he looked ridiculous. He had burns on his hands. But Sherlock didn’t seem to care._

_“Yes?” Mycroft enquired, frowning at him._

_“You go to London.”_

_“Yes, occasionally. Why?”_

_Sherlock held out an envelope. “You need to give this to the Superintendent at New Scotland Yard. No one else will do. It must be him.”_

_Mycroft raised his eyebrows. “And why would I do that?”_

_Sherlock grinned at him and ran off. He returned just moments later with several newspaper cuttings. “Look! Carl Powers. He died.”_

_“Most people don’t look so gleeful at the death of another child…”_

_“His shoes!” Sherlock exclaimed, ignoring him. “Look! Shoes. He loved his shoes. All the quotes say he loved swimming and trainers, but there were no trainers in the locker. Carl Powers didn’t die, he was murdered!”_

_Mycroft frowned. “I. Very much doubt that. He had a fit in the pool and drowned.”_

_“Poison!” Sherlock exclaimed as though it was obvious._

_“They check the bodies, Sherlock. They can find poison in the bloodstream. Even you know that.”_

_Sherlock glared at him. “Will you deliver it or not?”_

_“Not,” Mycroft replied._

_Sherlock pursed his lips for a moment. “Fine then,” he muttered. “I’ll deliver it myself. I have an envelope and I just need to post it.” He turned to walk away and then stopped. “Have you got a stamp?” he asked._

_“No.”_

_Sherlock turned back to him, a small pout on his lips. “Mummy will ask why I want one if I ask her. Mycroft. One stamp.” And then he added, almost as an afterthought: “Please?”_

_Mycroft raised his eyebrows, about to tell him to give up and throw the letter away, because he was wrong and because what policeman would care about the thoughts of a 12-year-old boy? But instead, he let out an exasperated sigh and opened his drawer._

_He found three stamps and he passed them all to Sherlock. “They won’t listen, you do know that?” Mycroft told him._

_Sherlock nodded. “Not straight away,” he agreed, his eyes wide. “But the evidence is right in front of their face. They have to see it. No one’s that stupid!” And then he rushed off._

* * *

**March 2010.**

**Location: The Diogenes Club, Pall Mall, London.**

But perhaps they really were that stupid, Mycroft mused. Carl Powers’ shoes, after all that time? Mycroft had thought Sherlock stupid back then. Not as stupid as he had thought Sherlock was when he was just seven-years-old but he never had the same intellect Mycroft had displayed at the same age.

Though perhaps it was just a different intellect. Sherlock lived for experimentation, for working with his hands, for creating music with his violin. Mycroft had despised playing the piano, he disliked all sport except fencing, and he had hated science almost as much as he had hated mathematics.

A few hours later, Mycroft received the news that the hostage had been found.

* * *

 

**April 2010.**

He tracked his brother’s movements over the next three days while he raced about, solving crimes, finding hostages, letting hostages explode and kill 11 other people, and updating his blog. Mycroft finally visited a dentist, and he was relieved to have the pain taken away. He found he was able to think a lot more clearly.

But nothing much was happening on the Andrew West front. He text John Watson, asking if he’d spoken to West’s fiancee.

But he saw it, even if Sherlock didn’t yet. It was far too much of a coincidence that top secret plans went missing just as Moriarty showed off to Sherlock. He would not get involved, just for now. He had to let Sherlock get on with it. Let him solve the puzzle.

 

MESSAGES Greg Lestrade  
3.19pm: You know, don’t you?  
You know what this all means?  
Why don’t you tell me things?  
Stop treating me like I don’t  
deserve answers.

 

MESSAGES  
3.21pm: I have no idea what you  
are referring to. M

 

MESSAGES Greg Lestrade  
3.21pm: MOR

 

Mycroft narrowed his eyes at the text. The link was all-so-obvious that even Greg could see it.

 

MESSAGES  
3.23pm: A coincidence. M

 

MESSAGES Greg Lestrade  
3.25pm: It bloody well isn’t.  
What am I dealing with?

 

MESSAGES  
3.25pm: I don’t know. M

 

MESSAGES Greg Lestrade  
3.27pm: YOU ALWAYS KNOW

 

MESSAGES  
3.28pm: You are mistaken. M

 

MESSAGES Greg Lestrade  
3.29pm: I don’t think I am.

 

MESSAGES  
3.34pm: I loathe texting. Do you  
have a point? M

 

Greg called him later that evening. Mycroft hesitated over it, not wanting to have another conversation about what he did or did not now. “Mycroft Holmes,” he finally answered.

“Hi,” Greg said, exhaustion in his voice. “Sorry, I know it’s late.”

“What’s wrong?” Mycroft asked.

“It’s the case, there was just. There was this kid and…”

“I understand, of course. I’m at the office in Whitehall. Please come, if you’d like to.”

“Are you sure? I don’t want to distract you.”

“I’d quite welcome it.”

“I’ll be about half an hour,” Greg said, hanging up.

Mycroft checked his pocketwatch at around the time he expected Greg to arrive and he boiled the kettle. He called for Greg to come in when he finally knocked on the door.

Greg looked positively disgruntled, his hair askew, shirt creased. He slumped down into the chair. He looked as though he hadn’t slept in days, which knowing Greg, was probably correct.

“Difficult week,” Mycroft murmured.

“Yeah.”

“What can I do?”

“I don’t know.”

Mycroft watched him for a moment before standing up. He pulled his chair around the desk, so it was close to Greg’s. He turned the kettle on again, re-boiling the water, before pouring Greg a coffee and a tea for himself. “Give that a few moments to cool down first,” he said, offering Greg a half smile, knowing full-well Greg’s habit for burning his mouth with scalding water.

Greg managed a smile in return, visibly beginning to relax. “Yeah, yeah,” he said.

Mycroft sat down beside him with his tea. “A child was wrapped in Semtex?”

“Yeah.”

Mycroft nodded. “But he’s alive?”

“He is. He’s fine. Unlike those 12 other people in that flat.” Greg shook his head. “Then this kid. Look, this has been difficult. I’ve been relying on Sherlock to get it done. What kind of idiot am I?”

“A brave one,” Mycroft said.

Greg shook his head. “Just a total prat.”

“Cases with children in are always difficult for you, Greg. They always have been. That’s nothing to be ashamed of.”

“I heard his voice, y’know? How scared he was.”

Mycroft reached out to him, and touched his arm. He quickly pulled back, realising he’d done it without even thinking. “I am doing everything I can to help Sherlock,” Mycroft promised. “We are looking into every avenue. Please don’t think I’m oblivious to what’s going on.”

“And what is going on?” Greg asked looking at him.

“There is a man running around London calling himself a consulting criminal. And has been for some time.”

“And what do I do?” Greg asked.

“Continue to be a good policeman.”

Greg paused and looked around. “I can’t see where this going.”

“For Sherlock, that’s where it becomes fun,” Mycroft said. Because he couldn’t see either. The future looked increasingly unclear.

“It’s not a game, Mycroft. It’s not fun to me. This is people’s lives. And now I’ve got to - what? To try to keep a mad consulting detective under control, keep an eye out for his gun-wielding, trigger-happy flatmate and at the same time remember there’s an absolute psychopath running around London making games for Sherlock to play? People died.”

“People always die.”

“They’re not just cannon fodder.”

Mycroft frowned. “I misspoke, I apologise,” he said, feeling genuinely remorseful for sounding so cold. It had become to easy, he thought, to be so dismissive.

“He sorted it, Mycroft. He solved all of them. He pushed it to the wire with that kid. Right down to the last 10 seconds. And even when he solved it, he was still babbling rather than saying the answer.”

“The child is happily reunited with his parents,” Mycroft reminded him.

“With nightmares for the rest of his life.”

“Perhaps not.”

Greg shook his head. “I can’t feel optimistic about that.”

“You are not alone in this, Greg.”

“You better promise me that, Mycroft. You better be absolutely serious about that. Because I’m not sure how long I can keep my team sat back, letting Sherlock solve it all. And I don’t know how many more bodies on my conscience I can deal with.”

“They are not on your conscience.”

“Yes, they are. All of them are.”

They looked at each other, eyes meeting. Yes, they were on Greg’s conscience because he felt the deaths and the sorrow those lifeless bodies left behind. Mycroft didn’t, not anymore. If indeed, he ever really had. He couldn’t remember anymore.

“All I can promise is that I will not abandon you,” Mycroft told him. “Any of you. Even when you think you’re alone, you’re not. I am working impossibly hard to solve this, Greg. And we will. We all will.”

“And what if someone I care about is in the firing line, Mycroft? How many risks are we going to have to take? Because this bloke. This bloke doesn’t care about making kids explode. He doesn’t give a damn if 12 people die in a bomb blast.”

“But you do.”

“What does that matter?” Greg snapped.

“It means you will give your all to bring about a resolution. And I am on your side.”

Greg bit his lip. They drank their drinks, the words lingering between them. “Alright,” Greg finally said.

“Alright?”

“Yeah. Fine. I believe you. You’re sticking around. Thank you.”

“I will always be working in the background.”

Greg sighed and stood up. “I should get home.” He bit his lip. “Mycroft, I.” He shook his head. “I dunno.”

“It will be fine, Greg.”

Greg nodded, though he still looked unsure. He held his hand out and Mycroft shook it. But they didn’t pull apart straight away. Greg stood in front of him, their hands held tightly between them as they studied one another. Finally Greg let go, turning away.

“I will be in touch,” Mycroft said.

“Yeah,” Greg said. “Yeah, I’ll talk to you soon.” He left the room, leaving Mycroft to ponder his next move.

It was several hours before Sherlock updated his website.

_Found. The Bruce-Partington plans. Please collect. The Pool. Midnight._

Mycroft clenched his jaw as he read the words. Sherlock was drawing Moriarty out. Playing the game for himself. Acting like a stupid child, though that was not unusual.

He read up on the Carl Powers case again. He paused for a moment, and then frowned as a phone call came in, the number withheld.

“Yes?” he answered.

“You don’t need to say a word,” a taunting voice whispered down the phone, an Irish lilt to it. “But if you or your little gang of spies make an appearance tonight, I will blow the pool sky high. I will blow Sherlock into so many little fragments, there will be nothing left for you to bury. Toodle-pip.”

The man hung up. Mycroft swallowed. He clenched his teeth together and smacked his hand down against the table. He left his office and had Kamik drive him to the Coeur de Lion Offices. He handed his phone to the IT man. “Track the last call on this phone!” he snapped. “And do it fast.”

“Sir…”

“Do it!”

Half an hour later, he received the news he expected. They had been unable to trace the call.

He had two options. To go in, guns blazing. Or to stay away and leave it to Sherlock. But he took Moriarty at his word. He would kill Sherlock if Mycroft so much as got within a few feet of the place.

Mycroft sunk down into his chair, his phone cradled in his hands. And as the clock turned to midnight, he only feared the worst. Sherlock had a tendency to cause trouble. He had a need to be right over a need to stay alive.

He waited as the minutes went by, hearing nothing. He refreshed Watchtower constantly, half expecting news of an explosion from the Charlton Lido. It never came.

He sat. Tense. It made his muscles hurt, his neck and his shoulders ached as though the weight of Sherlock’s potential death was weighing them down. He jumped as his phone rang. Sherlock’s name appeared on the screen.

“Yes?” he answered, half expecting that Irish accent to come over the receiver.

“Mycroft,” Sherlock replied and Mycroft closed his eyes, letting the sound wash over him. “John and I have finally met our friend.”

“Yes. He rang me to tell me not to come after you.”

“You probably should come. We’ll need a bomb disposal expert.”

“Is he gone?”

“Someone changed his mind,” Sherlock said. “Make it quick, Mycroft.”

Mycroft hung up and walked out of the building, calling for a bomb expert as he went. Kamik drove him to the pool. He stepped inside. John Watson was leaning against the wall, his head bowed. Not in shock, but certainly shaken.

Sherlock looked… almost unhinged. His eyes wide. “Calm down,” Mycroft muttered as he walked up to him. He turned and gestured for the bomb expert to walk in. “I assume that’s it?” he asked, nodding towards the coat lying on the tiles beside the pool.

“Yes,” Sherlock whispered.

Mycroft spun around to face John. He frowned. “Go outside and get in the car, John,” he said.

“But-” he began to protest.

“Go on,” Sherlock said. John frowned at them both. “Really,” Sherlock insisted. “Go.”

John nodded and pulled himself up, dragging his feet as he walked out of the building and into the car park. Mycroft waited for the door to close.

“Well?” he asked.

“Irish. Shorter than me. Dark hair, Westwood suit-”

“-Westwood?” Mycroft asked.

“Mmm. Apparently.” Sherlock frowned and shook his head. “I don’t… I can’t really…”

“You don’t remember much of what you deduced about him. That would be the shock.”

“I’m not in shock.”

“Yes you are,” Mycroft said. “You’re pale and your skin is clammy. I would advise you sit down but I know you won’t listen. What happened?”

“He strapped John up with Semtex. He had… shooters in here. Two, three, maybe.”

“What did he say?”

“That he’s a consulting criminal. That no one ever gets to him. And no one ever will. He said it was a warning. To back off. But he loved the game we were playing…” Sherlock frowned. “He threw the missile plans in the pool, said he could have got them anywhere. He said ‘do you know what happens if you don’t back off?’”

“And what happens?” Mycroft asked.

“He said… he said ‘I will burn you. I will burn… burn the heart out of you’.

“The heart?” Mycroft repeated. He raised his eyebrows. “Sentiment. And that a consulting criminal and terrorist would pick that as your… weakness.” He rolled his eyes. “What a surprise.”

Sherlock frowned. “And of course, you’re above all that.”

“Of course.”

“So Lestrade was just an unfortunate blip?”

“He saw something in you, Sherlock,” Mycroft replied, ignoring the dig. “Something to target. A weakness. He’ll be going after them.”

“John. Molly. Mrs Hudson.”

“Yes, I suspect so.”

“Lestrade?” Sherlock asked.

“Almost certainly.”

“You?”

Mycroft frowned, pursing his lips. “I suspect… potentially. Perhaps.”

“Sentiment,” Sherlock muttered.

“Between you and I? Hardly. It depends entirely on what he knows.”

“He knew about Carl Powers. That I tried to get the police interested in the case. He knows a lot.”

“We have a convoluted and at times… interesting history,” Mycroft reminded him. “He won’t know it all.”

“I will burn the heart out of you, he said. He’s chosen me. He’s interested in me. Why not you?”

“What has he deduced about my heart?”

“That it doesn’t exist. I’m not sentimental,” Sherlock protested, walking around in a circle, gesturing. “All I care about is the work. I don’t… Sentiment is dangerous and a distraction, I know all of this.”

“John Watson indicates otherwise.”

Sherlock shook his head. “No. Jim Moriarty was…” Sherlock’s eyes widened. “He knows Molly. He went on dates with her.”

“Then he knows,” Mycroft murmured.

“Knows what?” Sherlock asked.

“That you treat Miss Hooper with… disdain. You barely notice she’s there.”

Sherlock stared at him. “How could you possibly know that?”

“Her blog.”

“Blog? What blog? She has a blog?”

“Precisely my point, Sherlock,” Mycroft said. “I’ll watch over her. You’ll have to treat her as you always have done, if you want to keep her safe.”

“Lestrade?” Sherlock asked.

“It’s too late for him, John and Martha Hudson. Moriarty already knows that they... matter. Keep working, Sherlock. There’s nothing else you can do for them. Not until his judgement day comes down on us all. If you need help…”

“I don’t.”

“We’re on the same side. It’s about time you realised that.”

“You stink of lies, do you know that?” Sherlock said. “I feel them crawling off you. And sentiment it… No one else notices it, but I do. You reek of it.”

Mycroft shook his head. “There was one man, Sherlock. You and I both want to keep him safe. But my list of weaknesses is far shorter than yours.”

“Only Lestrade.”

If only, Mycroft thought. Instead he said: “He’s the best of all of us.”

“Mmm,” Sherlock said with a slight nod. “Yeah.”

“Why did Moriarty let you live?”

“Someone called him,” Sherlock said. “Gave him a reason not to. I don’t know who.”

“A question for another time. Goodnight, Sherlock. Keep me informed, will you?”

Sherlock grunted in response and Mycroft watched as he walked out of the pool. He waited as the bomb was dismantled.

He didn’t sleep until he had the fingerprints from the bomb checked on a police database. There was no match.

Exhausted, Mycroft clambered into bed. He dreamed of bombs. He woke up still feeling on edge. 


	49. General Election

**April 2010.**

**Location: The Coeur de Lion Offices, Mayfair, London.**

The office only Mycroft and Anthea could access was full of everything they could find on Moriarty. It wasn’t a lot. Jim Moriarty may have been the name he claimed to have, but Mycroft suspected it wasn’t the one he was born with. Somehow, despite the power he wielded, he worked on a different plane, remaining undetected.

One computer stayed on at all times, updating every minute with surveillance information on Sherlock, John Watson, Martha Hudson, Molly Hooper, Greg Lestrade and (despite Anthea’s reservations) Jane Lestrade.

Mycroft had to pull Cliff Crenshaw and Edward Palfrey off the work they were doing for Hugh Seagroves. Instead, he put Cliff on Sherlock, John and Martha Hudson’s detail and Edward on Greg and Jane’s. Jolana Pieczynski was responsible for Molly. After the first week, Mycroft began to add more people to the surveillance teams. He was busily recruiting more people, building relationships with agents whose talents Nadia Swift and Hugh Seagroves had failed to recognise. Agents who were delighted to be noticed and more than happy to take what they thought was a promotion in order to work at the Coeur de Lion Offices.

But Cliff, Jolana and Edward were the team responsible for protection. Another team entirely was required to track down Moriarty. And so the team of Mycroft and Anthea expanded. Jim Braum, of course, was head of the Moriarty Operation. Although his skills had never rested in espionage, he had a talent for following people and for wielding a weapon.

Mycroft trusted Bill Tomlinson well enough, from the years they had spent working in the CIA together. And Stewart Trease had proved himself useful over the time he had worked at the Couer de Lion Offices. Madhubala Selling, the only member of the MI5 team to be put onto the Moriarty Operation, was the final member. His unique skills in numbers and transport made him a prime candidate for the project.

Mycroft filled their old posts quickly enough, leaving them able to donate time to the operation without other distractions. He chose another room in the building and filled it with computers and surveillance equipment.

It took three weeks for him to be even close to satisfied. He could stand in the other room, watching as data streamed by. They monitored the internet for mentions of Moriarty. More than 98 per cent of the mentions were innocuous. But occasionally something would pop up worth following. Those leads were often wiped off the internet in a heartbeat.

Every crime was a possible lead. Mycroft pulled the records from every police force in the country. He worked with the Commander at New Scotland Yard to ensure they were singing from the same hymn sheet. They had always been able to work together quite closely, ever since they’d known each other. But this was the first time Mycroft wasn’t entirely honest with him about his ambitions and aims. It came together. All the work GCHQ had done to monitor phones and communications gave Mycroft more to work with.

It wasn’t happening fast enough, but everything was happening and he had to be satisfied with that for a while.

Now came the waiting. But Mycroft knew he wouldn’t need to wait forever.

* * *

**May 2010.**

**Location: Crusader House, Pall Mall, London.**

He had to queue at the polling station to cast his vote for the General Election.

In truth, he didn’t really want to vote for any of them. Working that closely to politicians had made him even more disillusioned with politics than the average person was. But he still loved the freedom to vote. Democracy. Even if those standing for election for weren’t always perfect.

While the country went to the polls, Mycroft found he didn’t have an awful lot of work to do. So for the first time in two months, he left work at 5pm.

He went to the gym at the MI5 building at Thames Cross for an hour before going back to Crusader House. He showered and then read for a while, losing track of time until a text broke him from his concentration.

 

MESSAGES Greg Lestrade  
7.21pm: The mrs is out for dinner  
tonight. Wondered if you fancied  
dinner or something?

 

Mycroft pursed his lips. She was out at dinner with the school governor, he expected. That particular affair had been going on since March, and it showed no signs of stopping yet. He wasn’t sure spending time with Greg was a good idea though, not with Moriarty around.

He put his book down and padded into the kitchen, flicking the kettle on. He leaned against the side as he waited for it to boil. He didn’t have anything else planned though. He hadn’t done anything but work for months. Even dinners out had been negotiations and interrogations and… Well, Greg was easy. Greg put him at ease.

So against his better judgement, he picked up his phone and called him and invited him for a takeaway. He poured out a large glass of whiskey for himself, taking a seat beside the fire as he waited. He called for a Chinese takeaway for the two of them, letting the drink settle his nerves.

He smiled when Greg walked in, looking far more relaxed than he had been when Mycroft last saw him. Greg passed him the books Mycroft had lent him.

“How were they?” Mycroft asked as he began to put them back into his bookcase.

“Not my favourites all of them, but good anyway.”

“I took the liberty of ordering our dinner,” Mycroft said. He flicked his eyes over the rest of his books and handed some to Greg. “Try this one when you are having a bad day. And these provide a good balance of thought-provoking narrative and dry humour.”

Greg smiled. “Brilliant. Thanks for these.”

“You’re welcome. What can I get you to drink?”

“What are you having?”

“I’m afraid I’ve already started on the whiskey,” Mycroft said.

“Then I’ll have the same.”

Mycroft nodded and walked to the small round table, opening the decanter. He poured some out into the glass before topping up his own drink.

“I thought you’d be busy tonight,” Greg said. “With the General Election and stuff.”

“No, it’s all just parties. Too much self-congratulation and commiseration for my liking.”

He walked over to Greg, holding the glass out. Their fingers brushed together as they exchanged it, and Mycroft turned his head away, afraid to see what that brief touch did to the state of Greg’s pupils and his cheeks.

“And how is everything?” Mycroft asked as they took a seat beside one another on the settee.

“It’s good. Rumbling on much the same as usual. You?”

“Quieter than normal. Everything will pick up once the election is over. How are Sherlock and Doctor Watson?”

“The usual too,” Greg told him. “Getting in trouble, I’m sure.”

Mycroft nodded. He turned around at the knock on the door and collected and paid for their dinner. He listened as Greg walked to the kitchen and began to take out the plates. Greg had already laid the table by the time Mycroft joined him, and they began to open the boxes, spreading the dishes out between them.

“John’s blog has potential to get us in a bit of trouble,” Greg said after a mouthful.

“Mm,” Mycroft replied.

Greg glanced at him. “What?”

“Nothing. Merely agreeing with you.”

“But you’re not going to discourage it?”

“I don’t believe discouraging anything would make the slightest difference. If anything, my discouragement would add fuel to the fire.”

Greg laughed. “I believe that. Did I see some plum sauce somewhere?”

Mycroft frowned. “Yes, you did.” He passed the sauce to him. “Are there any-”

“-Won tons?” Greg finished for him, grinning. He passed the box over to him.

Mycroft smiled, amused, taking two from the box. “Apparently I haven’t hidden my liking for these particularly well.”

Greg laughed and shook his head. “Nope. I may have noticed it.”

Mycroft smiled a little sheepishly as he ate one. He glanced up as Greg frowned, surveying the food. Mycroft passed him the chicken balls, knowing exactly what it was Greg wanted, and Greg grinned, dipping one in the sweet chili sauce.

Mycroft piled some more food on his plate, but he flicked his eyes up, glancing across the table to where Greg was focusing on his food. Mycroft licked his lips, wiping his fingers on a kitchen towel. He swallowed and returned to studying his meal instead.

“Mind if I steal a won ton?” Greg asked.

“Of course not,” Mycroft replied with a smile.

“I don’t want to deprive you of them.”

“I’m not that overprotective.”

Greg laughed and took one from the box. He held it up enticingly between his fingers. “Are you sure?” he asked.

“Honestly. Enjoy it.”

Greg grinned before pushing the whole thing in his mouth, covering his lips with his hand as he tried to cram the whole thing in. Mycroft rolled his eyes, but he found himself laughing.

“Shit,” Greg mumbled around his mouthful, having a large swig from his whiskey.

“Was that really necessary?” Mycroft asked him.

“I thought if I didn’t eat it in one, there was a risk of you reaching over and eating it straight from my fingers.”

Mycroft raised his eyebrows. “Now, now,” he said. “I do have some sense of decorum. I would have taken it using the chopsticks.”

Greg burst out laughing, shaking his head. Mycroft smiled and took a long breath. Greg leaned back in his chair and patted his stomach. “Brilliant,” he said.

Mycroft smiled. “It was.” Greg got up and collected their plates. “You don’t need to do that,” Mycroft said.

“Yeah, I know, but I like to be useful.”

Mycroft watched for a minute as he turned the taps on. Mycroft stood up. “I’ll dry,” he announced.

“Got yourself a deal, Holmes,” Greg grinned, sliding his jacket off and hanging it on the back of a chair. He rolled his sleeves up to his elbows, and Mycroft forced himself to ignore his tanned forearms.

“So, what are your plans for tonight?” Greg asked.

“I’ll be watching the election, I imagine. And yourself?”

“Not a lot. Got a day off tomorrow so probably watch rubbish telly.”

“You are more than welcome to stay and watch the election coverage here with a drink,” Mycroft told him, knowing full well that would be the last thing Greg would want to do.

“Watch the election coverage? This is only the second time I’ve ever voted. I don’t think the election coverage will keep me entertained.” Greg paused for a second. “Unless… nah.”

Mycroft narrowed his eyes. “Unless what?”

Greg grinned, his eyes sparkling. “Unless we make it interesting.”

“That expression of yours has the power to invoke terror in far stronger men than me.”

Greg laughed. “Drinking game.”

“A drinking game?”

“Yup. What happens on the election coverage exactly?”

“They go through each area of the country, constituency by constituency and declare the results.”

“That’s it then,” Greg said.

“What is?” Mycroft asked warily, taking a fork from him to dry up.

“For each constituency, we’ll predict the result as it comes up. So, what, do they announce a percentage?”

“Yes.”

“Right,” Greg grinned. “Good. Then we have to say who wins and what percentage they get. And loser drinks whatever is left in their glass.”

Mycroft frowned. “I’m a Civil Servant. I don’t imagine this game will have a good outcome for you.”

“I’ll be drunk and in your company. I don’t see how I lose.”

Mycroft chuckled. “You may regret that choice of words in the morning.”

“I’ll be hungover after a good night.”

“What does the winner get?” Mycroft asked.

“Glory,” Greg said, with a wide grin. “And hopefully as drunk as the loser. I’m not planning on losing all of them. I’m getting you as wasted as me, Mycroft. That’s a promise.”

“I’ve never played a drinking game before,” Mycroft admitted.

Greg grinned. “First time for everything.”

Mycroft nodded, still wary, as Greg emptied the sink and dried his hands. He flashed Mycroft a grin before carrying their glasses back to the living room. Mycroft put the plates away in the cupboard and threw the boxes away before he joined him. He took his picture down from in front of the television and switched it on to BBC One.

“So, what can I expect?” Greg asked, as Mycroft took a seat beside him on the settee. He had already topped their glasses up. “Lots of chatting and analysis?”

“Yes, rather a lot.”

“I’ve never watched this before.”

Mycroft sat back in the chair and checked the time. “I presume I don’t need to tell you the names of the Prime Minister and those running against him?”

Greg snorted and sipped his drink. “No, I’ve got that, cheers. Not a total idiot. I’ve been reading about their policies and all sorts.”

“Which other election did you vote in?” Mycroft asked.

“My first one, after I was 18. Just didn’t really care much after that. I didn’t see how it made a difference.”

“And what changed your mind?”

Greg shrugged. “Piper at work keeps telling me everyone has to vote. She gave me a big speech about how important it is. And you. Y’know. You deal with countries all over the world where people don’t have a right to vote. I’ve heard you talk about it. And I think you think it’s important. If it’s important to you, it’s important to me.”

Mycroft turned to him, lips parted in surprise. It had been the very thought that went through his mind when he voted that morning. Greg gave a small shrug and turned to the television.

The exit polls predicted a hung Parliament. That kept the options for Prime Minister open. Far more open than Mycroft liked the prospect of. There would be days of negotiations before a Government would be decided upon. That left too much uncertainty… too much room for chaos…

“Do they just talk all night?” Greg asked.

“Yes.” Greg frowned and Mycroft laughed. “Did you really expect anything else?”

“I don’t know.” Greg pulled a face. “I thought they’d have… I dunno. Arm wrestling?” Greg grinned. “No, you’re right. I shouldn’t have expected anything else. Why are those kids running with boxes?”

“There’s a race at the start of the night to be the first constituency to declare.”

“That’s some dedication to democracy right there,” Greg said. He leaned back in the chair, and Mycroft found himself beginning to settle, feeling so much more relaxed than he had been since…

Had he been this relaxed since they’d ended their relationship? Oh no, don’t think about that, he thought. He pushed the thoughts away. Mycroft topped their drinks up. “This is the first constituency coming up,” he said.

Greg nodded. “Um. Right. 60 per cent Tory?”

“49 per cent Labour,” Mycroft said.

They watched as the announcement was made and Greg downed his drink. “Alright. I’ll get the swing of it.”

“Are you sure this is a good idea?” Mycroft asked him.

“It’s a great idea.” Greg grinned at him. “Come on. Trust me.”

“I do on most things.”

“Trust me on this one too. It’s fun.”

“Very well. But I fear you will become rather drunk quite quickly.”

“You can drink too you know.”

Mycroft smiled. “Yes, but not at the same speed. My turn to go first, I suppose? 50 per cent Labour.”

Greg wrinkled his nose. “36 per cent to the Conservatives.” Mycroft smiled triumphantly as Greg was forced to have another drink. “I’ll be drunk as a skunk in 10 minutes at this rate.”

Mycroft chuckled. “Would you like a tip?”

“Yes please.”

“In the top corner before they call each constituency is the result from the previous election. Anything above 40 per cent, you can fairly safely assume it is a safe seat.”

“Safe seat?” Greg asked.

“Meaning it is a predominantly Tory or Labour area and therefore unlikely to change. The other areas are swing seats, and are those all three parties are fighting for.”

Greg laughed. “So you were cheating.”

“I was using all of the facts available to me at the time.”

“Cheating.”

Mycroft shrugged his shoulders. “I’ve shared my tip with you. If you want to call it cheating then you can indeed be as drunk as a skunk in 10 minutes time.”

They turned to each other, and the corner of Greg’s lips twitched. And then he laughed, and the sound drew a chuckle from Mycroft in return. Mycroft sipped his drink. “And now we wait,” he said.

“More talking.”

“Quite right.”

Greg nodded and they listened for a short while as the politicians tried to argue why the exit poll was wrong.

“Do you know them?” Greg asked.

“Yes, that’s Andrew Regis on the far left,” Mycroft told him. “And then John Carvie there, on the right. I’m not sure who that woman… No, I’m not sure. I think she’s a spokesperson for the Liberal Democrats, I don’t think she’s a politician. Or, if she is, I haven’t met her.”

“What are they like?”

“Who?”

“Regis and… Carvery.”

Mycroft smiled. “Carvie. Andrew Regis is… one of the most annoying people I’ve ever known. Sherlock excepted.”

Greg laughed. “Yeah? And Carvie?”

“He’s… capable, I suppose.”

Greg glanced at the screen. “35 per cent Tory.”

“Difficult one,” Mycroft murmured as he studied the screen. “It was Labour, but it won’t take a big swing to shift the balance to the Conservatives. 34 per cent Labour.”

They waited while the numbers were announced and Greg let out a cheer as he won. “Down it, Holmes,” he grinned.

Mycroft rolled his eyes and downed what was left in his glass. “One victory and you’re already unbearable.”

“It might be my only win, I need to make the most of it.”

“I’m sure you’ll have many successes,” Mycroft replied. He checked the television. “40 per cent Conservative.”

“35 per cent Conservative,” Greg said. It was 34 per cent. Greg grinned and pointed at Mycroft. “And it’s two-all.”

“This is far too expensive to drink like this,” Mycroft said, but poured a little whiskey into his glass and downed it nonetheless.

He leaned back against the chair, adjusting the cushions. He turned his head and everything felt slow. Mellow. And his head was… very almost at peace.

“So, why is this not the busiest night of the year for you?” Greg asked.

“It could be if I wanted it to be. Most of my staff are at parties all over London. Anthea and Arnou are on a boat on the Thames this evening. Anthea claims she’s working, but really she enjoys the free champagne.”

Greg laughed. “I can see the appeal of that.”

“I find parties exhausting,” Mycroft admitted. “And it’s a good opportunity to sit back and watch, rather than participate in the proceedings. I have to work very closely with whomever is elected this evening. It’s better to appear completely neutral.”

“But are you? Neutral?”

“I voted just like everybody else,” Mycroft said. “Of course I have a preference.”

“Do you always vote?”

“I’ve not missed a single election, national, local or European, since I was 18.”

“That’s impressive,” Greg said. “I think Piper was right. All her reasons to vote were good ones.”

Mycroft nodded towards the screen. “40 per cent Conservative.”

Greg glanced at the screen. “Same party, 32 per cent.” Mycroft smirked as he won that round, watching as Greg finished his drink. Greg turned to him. “Right, Mycroft, answer me something.”

“Of course.”

Greg pointed at him and then hesitated, before pouring more whiskey into his glass. He shifted back in his seat so they were facing each other again. “So, when you watch this,” Greg started. “Do you see democracy in action? Is this… is this what you want in the world?”

“Democracy is vital,” Mycroft murmured. “I have seen far too many oppressed states in my line of work.”

“But is this right? Is this the perfect system?”

“Hardly. There is no foolproof, perfect system. But this is a true election. It isn’t an election masquerading as democracy where the number of votes makes no difference to the outcome.”

Greg nodded. “So, we should be proud, right?”

Mycroft paused for a second. There wouldn’t be a result. First-past-the-post wasn’t perfect. But… “Yes. I suppose we should be.”

“You’re patriotic, really, aren’t you?”

“I still won’t be watching the Football World Cup,” Mycroft said.

Greg laughed. “I didn’t even ask that.”

“No, but I was asked to participate in a sweepstake at work.”

“I’m going to set one up at the Yard. Bet I get lumbered with New Zealand.”

“Poor New Zealand.”

Greg looked at him and laughed. His eyes widened. “Oh, God, speaking of bloody New Zealand. You know John went on holiday with his girlfriend for a couple of weeks to New Zealand?”

Mycroft raised his eyebrows. “I didn’t,” he lied. God that had been a nightmare, keeping an eye on him while he was on the other side of the world. “But carry on.”

“Sherlock, right. Sherlock was obviously worse than usual. Hanging around the Yard and demanding cases and everything.” Greg started to laugh. “Anyway, we were at this case… hang on, this actually needs to be demonstrated.” Greg hauled himself out of the chair, swaying as he went. He held his hand out to steady himself and then grinned, undeterred. “Right, right, here this is. This is it.”

Mycroft laughed. “Greg, what are you doing?” he asked.

“I’m demonstrating!” Greg puffed his chest out. “Right. So, he comes in, yeah?”

“Who?”

“Sherlock!” Greg exclaimed, as though that was obvious. “I’m just standing in this big grand hall where we found a body, and it’s got these big wooden doors. And he just…” Greg laughed, bending over a little bit. He took a deep breath to compose himself. “He comes in, arms wide, opening the doors with both hands like he’s bloody Aragorn in Lord Of The Rings and-”

“-I’m sorry, I don’t quite understand the reference,” Mycroft interrupted.

“Lord Of The Rings.”

“Yes, I am familiar with Tolkien. What I am not familiar with is how Sherlock opening two doors was anything like Aragorn.”

“You know. That scene! Where he opens the doors.” Mycroft raised his eyebrows. “You’ve never watched the movies, have you?” Greg said. “How have you not seen Lord Of The Rings?”

“I enjoyed the books.”

“So did I, but these films are epic!”

“So are the books.”

“Yeah, but… but. Huh. Well, that’s killed my demonstration.” Greg collapsed into the chair, swinging his legs up so they were in Mycroft’s lap.

“I’m sure your theatrics were going to be quite enlightening,” Mycroft replied, instinctively resting a hand on Greg’s shin. “Nonetheless, it is safer on the sofa. You’re swaying a lot.”

Greg laughed. “That’s because I’ve been drinking a lot of your good stuff.” Greg leaned forward and topped up his glass, not making any move to take his legs off Mycroft’s lap. He kicked his shoes off. “Such good stuff. How much is this worth a glass anyway?”

“On average? £20. The size you’re pouring yourself? More like £50.”

Greg whistled. “Knew there was a reason I keep you around.”

“I’m glad I can be of some use to you.”

“Some use? You’re too bloody useful. I should tell you to be less useful. Less… use.”

Mycroft snorted and took the decanter from him, pouring his own drink. “You’re drunk, Greg.”

“And you’re not?”

Mycroft frowned, considering. “Yes, I suppose that’s accurate.”

Greg peered at him. “You don’t even seem different. How’d you do that?”

“A skill I have perfected over many years.”

“You’ve got too many skills. Dunno how you do that either.”

“A great deal of practice.”

“I bet you practice being Mycroft Holmes, don’t you? Like you’ve got to remind yourself how to do it.”

“Hardly.”

Greg peered at the TV. “They’re calling somewhere.”

Mycroft wrinkled his nose. “54 per cent Labour.”

“Nah. 61 per cent Labour.” They watched the result. Greg fist pumped the air. “And it’s victory for Lestrade, sweeping in with an extravagant guess!”

“I believe we’re even.”

Greg snorted. “And you thought you were going to beat me hand over foot. What does that even mean? Hand over foot?”

“Hand over fist, and it’s usually used for financial transactions.”

“Huh.” Greg shuffled around in the chair, and Mycroft smiled at him, amused. “Hey, Mycroft?”

“Yes, Greg?”

“You’re not taking it easy on me are you?”

“Absolutely not. I’m supposed to be a Government employee, I should be winning.”

Greg grinned. “Y’should. Mycroft?”

“Yes?”

“No one’s gonna win this election are they?”

“Unlikely.”

“So. So, what? We all went out and voted and no one wins?”

“I expect we will have a hung parliament and then they will attempt to form a coalition.”

Greg frowned. “Because no one wants any of the bastards enough to vote for them.”

“Yes, I suppose that is fairly accurate,” Mycroft agreed.

Greg shook his head. “I voted Labour because of their police policies. Is that bad?”

“No, Greg. You should vote for whomever you feel is appropriate for you based on your own wishes and beliefs.”

“I don’t have any political beliefs. I just believe in the Mycroft Holmes Party.”

“There is no such thing.”

Greg grinned and poked Mycroft in the thigh with his big toe. “There should be. You practically run it all anyway. You’d be amazing. Maybe not so good at the economy, because you’re crap at maths.”

Mycroft shook his head. “I am not bad at mathematics.”

“Yeah you are. You told me so.”

“It was my weaker subject at school. I was in no way bad.”

“I could whip your arse at maths.”

“You could do no such thing,” Mycroft said.

“Could though. If I was sober. Calling it! 57 per cent Tory.”

“56 per cent Conservative.”

“You under-cutter, you.”

“Tactical, Greg,” Mycroft said with a smirk.

“You and your bloody tactics.” They watched the screen. “But it’s another sweeping victory for Greg Lestrade.”

Mycroft groaned. “Good Lord, this is appalling.”

“You’re slipping,” Greg grinned. “Go on. Drink.”

“I’m already thoroughly intoxicated.”

“Intoxicate yourself some more then.”

Mycroft rolled his eyes and had another long sip of his drink. They both looked at each other and laughed.

“Why do I let you do these things?” Mycroft asked as he pushed Greg’s legs off his lap and stood up and made his way to the bathroom.

“Because I am the most fun person you’ve ever met.”

Mycroft laughed and stumbled into the bathroom. He closed the door, pulling it harder than he’d intended and wincing as it slammed shut. He used the facilities and washed his hands, finding himself smiling as he glanced in the mirror. He traipsed back to the settee, and Greg passed him to use the bathroom. Mycroft slumped back down in the chair, watching the screen but not really taking in anything of what was happening. He tilted his head backwards when he heard the bathroom door open, peering at Greg from upside down.

Greg walked to the back of the sofa, and brushed Mycroft’s hair back. He leaned down and kissed Mycroft’s forehead. It lasted just a second and Mycroft wanted to draw him back, for him to stay there, for the moment to last an eternity.

“What was that?” he asked instead.

“It was a head snog,” Greg said, collapsing onto the chair and stretching his legs back over Mycroft’s lap. Mycroft’s hand found its place on his leg again.

“I see. And just what was that in aid of?” Mycroft asked, closing his eyes and rubbing his thumb against Greg’s knee through the denim.

“Who knows,” Greg replied.

“Hm,” Mycroft replied

“Just is,” Greg mumbled.

“Mm.”

“Sleepy, Mycroft?” Greg asked tiredly.

He nodded. “Mmm.”

“C’mere.”

Mycroft opened one eye. “What?”

“C’mere,” Greg repeated, holding one arm out, his eyes still closed.

“How drunk are you?” Mycroft asked.

Greg opened his eyes and blinked at him. “Pretty hammered. You?”

“Yes. Much the same.”

“C’mere.”

“Greg…”

Greg lifted his arm again. “C’mere.”

Mycroft sighed. Silly. Bad idea… but he was already pushing Greg’s legs off his lap. Not a good… no, not a good plan at all. Rather ridiculous really. Two grown men. They’d never fit… Greg lay down on his back on the sofa and Mycroft lay down beside him, his back resting against the back of the settee. Mycroft rested his cheek on Greg’s shoulder, one hand on his chest.

Greg was still married. There was a finger on his ring… no, that wasn’t right. A ring on his ring-finger, because of the marriage and Jane and… Well, not tonight. They weren’t together tonight. Greg was with Mycroft tonight.

“Silly idea,” Mycroft murmured, as Greg wrapped one arm around him.

“Yeah,” Greg said.

So silly,” Mycroft thought. Mycroft stretched his arm along Greg’s chest. Savour this. Greg’s cheek pressed to Mycroft’s hair. Warmth flooded through him. Oh, he felt so settled. Oh, he knew it wouldn’t last. Stay awake, he told himself. Feel it, savour it, keep it locked in your mind. If you never sleep, you never need to wake up and the moment need never end, but that made no sense…

Mycroft yawned and closed his eyes. He was asleep moments later.

“Mycroft,” he heard.

Mycroft felt so warm. Wrapped up. Cared for. “Mmm.” Oh, wasn’t this so… He frowned. Who was holding him, exactly? “Mmm?”

“Gonna go sleep in your spare room.” Oh. Greg. “I’ve got a crooked neck. That alright?”

“Mmm, o’course,” Mycroft said quietly. The warmth left as Greg got up. Mycroft sat up, the world spinning and catching up seconds later. “Oh, too much whiskey.”

Greg nodded. “Yeah, too much. See you in a couple of hours, yeah?”

“Yes. Of course.”

Greg groaned and shuffled to the spare bedroom. Mycroft pulled a cushion onto his lap, contemplating moving. He could just sleep on the settee, he supposed… no moving involved in the settee…

“Mycroft?” Greg asked.

Mycroft glanced at him. “Mm?”

“S’because I’m drunk,” Greg started, and Mycroft could already feel the weight of the words about to come, before Greg even finished speaking them. No sentences starting with ‘it’s because I’m drunk’, were ever good. “In the morning, if you forget… I hope you forget me sayin’. S’would have been nice. You and me in the bed an’ all. Shouldn’t say it. ‘Cause I’m married and…” Greg put his hand on the door and he hung his head. “Because I’m married.”

Mycroft opened his mouth. Stay with me, he wanted to say. She’s cheating on you. Just… take to me bed. “She’s cheating on you.” He paused. “I’m sorry.”

“How long?” Greg asked, his voice a little lost.

“Months.”

Greg sighed. “I knew it. Deep down.”

Mycroft swallowed. “Go to sleep, Greg. Don’t ask for something you’ll regret.”

“What happens if I ask?” Greg asked.

“I don’t know if I have the power or the good conscience to say no,” Mycroft said softly, his chest tightening. He stared at Greg’s back, waiting for the man’s next move.

“Night, Mycroft,” Greg finally said as he opened the door.

Mycroft hung his head. “Goodnight, Greg,” he whispered. He watched as the door was closed. He rubbed his face. He’d regret saying that in the morning, he thought. He stood up, switching off the television. The lights had gone off by themselves, because of the timers on them. He touched the wall, using it to guide his way to his bedroom.

He managed to pull his trousers off but he slid under the covers in his shirt and shivered. He pulled a pillow closer to himself and wrapped his arms around it.

* * *

He woke at 6am. He hadn’t closed the curtains, and he squinted into the light. He groaned as he rolled over, burying his face in the pillow.

He was alone. Of course he was alone, who else would he… Greg had stayed. Greg had been… against him. Curled up with him, on the sofa.

_I don’t know if I have the power or the good conscience to say no._

The words echoed through Mycroft’s head. He sat up and rubbed his head. Oh good Lord. He had to get out of there. He had a long shower, his eyes closed. He dressed quickly and was driven to the Diogenes Club.

He didn’t return home until that evening, when he found Greg’s note. Sorry for my drunken mess of a state! Talk soon. Greg.

I’m sorry, Mycroft thought as he read it. For what he’d done in allowing them to get so close. In telling Greg about his wife. About bearing his feelings so… so blatantly.

Ashamed, he threw the note away and forced himself to forget.

Greg text him the next day. ‘Are you okay?’. He asked. Mycroft didn’t know how to tell him that he was most certainly not okay. That he wouldn’t be okay. That he was weak. That he was still in love. That he always would be.

What a silly mistake.

A mistake not to be repeated.

Resolved, he decided to keep Greg at arm’s length in future.

* * *

**June 2010.**

**Location: Berlin, Germany.**

The news of a bomb due to be planted on an aeroplane taking off from Berlin Airport provided the perfect distraction. Mycroft travelled with a man from the MOD (interesting BDSM lifestyle), Hugh Seagroves (broken up with his wife, again) and Erin Bareford.

They put their plan into action. Finding dead bodies wasn’t an easy task. Some were British, others German. But as the plan came together, Mycroft began to realise it was going to work. So many casualties… and not a single person dead.

“We’re going to save the world with this,” the MOD man said with a grin.

Mycroft rolled his eyes at his gleeful hyperbole. But he couldn’t help but be pleased at what they were doing. For the first time in a long time, he felt a sense of achievement. The feeling that a plan was coming together. That finally, finally, he was able to be proactive rather than reactive.

* * *

**July 2010.**

**Location: Berlin Airport, Germany.**

Mycroft stood in an office overlooking the terminal, his hands folded in front of him as he stared down through the glass. He nodded his head towards the engineer making his way into the aeroplane, ready to put the bomb on board. “There we go,” he said. “Bold as brass. No one questions it. No one has reason to suspect.”

Hugh Seagroves stood up and frowned. “This plan. It’s genius.”

Mycroft nodded. “I know,” he replied. “He’ll run, I suppose. The bomber. But as long as we can still keep an eye on what the terrorists are up to then it won’t be too much of a problem.” He turned around and walked out of the office.

He returned at 3.30am, watching as the bodies were wheeled onto the aeroplane. “I’ve seen a lot of things in my life,” Hugh muttered. “Many things I wish I’d never seen. But this…”

“Yes, there’s something quite… sinister about it,” Mycroft agreed. “Are you staying?”

“Staying?”

“For take off?”

“Yeah,” Hugh said. “You?”

Mycroft shook his head. “No, I’ll be leaving first thing in the morning. Before the flight takes off, of course.”

“One of the bodies is missing,” Erin said from behind them. “Someone called… John Coniston.”

“I suppose it will just have to depart without him,” Mycroft replied. “I don’t suspect he’ll ask for a refund.”

Hugh chuckled. “That’s dark, even for you.”

They left an hour later, knowing that later that morning, the aeroplane would take off… and it would never land in one piece.

Mycroft had arrived back in London just as news of the explosion was beginning to filter through. He sunk down into his chair and let out a pleased smile. They’d done it. The aeroplane had exploded, as the terrorists planned. But no one had died.

John Coniston’s body turned up in a car a day later. Sherlock, Greg and John attended the scene, but Sherlock couldn’t solve it.

There was interest though, in John and Sherlock’s work. What started as a few mentions on social networking sites steadily began to grow. The first news stories were printed in July. Small stories at first, then longer, more detailed, more inquisitive.

“I hope you know what you’re doing,” Mycroft said to Sherlock at Baker Street one afternoon. John was at work, while Sherlock was bent over some hideous experiment.

“Hm? About what?”

“The publicity. Good for business, I suppose. Not so good for keeping a low-profile.”

“Who said I wanted a low profile?” Sherlock asked, not looking at him.

“Yes, you always did like the attention. Are you planning to give any interviews?”

Sherlock glanced at him and smirked. “You would hate that, wouldn’t you?”

“I only want to know what to expect.”

“You only want to control what I do, you mean.”

“Sherlock…”

Sherlock straightened and put his goggles on top of his head. “I’m not going to give any interviews. But I’m not going to fade into the background either.”

“He’ll be back,” Mycroft said. “Moriarty. And you know he’ll be watching you.”

Sherlock nodded. “I know,” he replied. “That’s kind of the point, isn’t it?”

“We don’t know what he knows,” Mycroft said. “We don’t know where his links are. We don’t know if he has connections to the media or to the Government.”

“Then I suggest you start doing some research.”

“I’m going to Eastern Europe. Our… research suggests he has conducted a lot of work out there.”

Sherlock didn’t reply. Mycroft rolled his eyes and headed for the door. “Your men are obvious, by the way,” Sherlock said. “No one else has noticed, but they’re not exactly discreet.”

“I’ll make a note of it.”

“Mycroft.”

Mycroft frowned and looked back over his shoulder. “What?”

“Lestrade. He and his wife are separated. Thought you’d want to know.”

Mycroft shook his head. “No,” he murmured. “No, I don’t want to know.”

“Really?”

“How many battles do you suppose have been lost through sentiment?” Mycroft asked. “I don’t have an answer to that. But any affection you think I may have had for Greg Lestrade…” He paused for a moment. Sherlock tilted his head at him. “He is no longer my concern,” he declared. And with that, he walked away.


	50. Secrets

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy birthday many-paths-to--tread! I hope your day has been wonderful in every single way!

**August 2010.**

**Location: Riga, Latvia.**

He had only recognised the spy from the tattoo on his right arm. His face was unrecognisable. Another dead man. Another dead agent. Just one more of Mycroft’s former allies killed. It was as though Moriarty had left him a trail to follow. As he crossed the border into another country to meet with someone he trusted, he only found death.

“I once had contacts all over Eastern Europe,” Mycroft muttered, staring out across the city. He frowned, resting his hands on the cool windowsill. “It’s as though a hurricane has ravaged it. Torn everything apart.”

He dropped his head, closing his eyes to try to block the images out. He heard Anthea let out a soft hum of agreement from where she sat on the edge of the bed, but she didn’t reply.

“Everywhere we’ve gone,” he muttered. “Contacts I’ve had for years have just… disappeared. Sherlock dealt with the Golem as part of one of Moriarty’s… puzzles. And if there’s the Golem, then there’s more. Assassins. Terrorists. It runs deep. So deep that no matter how much we dig, we can’t even get close to it.”

“Maybe we should start over?” Anthea suggested.

“Start where?” Mycroft asked. “I don’t even know where the beginning was anymore.” He opened his eyes again, staring at the streetlights below. “Was it Carl Powers? Did it start as long ago as 1989? Did it start with Rickard Luck? And if I don’t know the beginning, then I can’t predict the end. He doesn’t even have leaks. Or if he does, he kills them. That’s five agents since we’ve arrived in Eastern Europe. Five agents I once knew, who are dead or missing. And no one is even asking why.”

“They’re too scared.”

“They’re scared of murmurings. They’re scared of a name, Anthea. Just a name.”

“What do you want to do?”

“I think we should return to London. We can’t do anything here. There’s nothing left here to find.” He sighed. He didn’t like to retreat. He didn’t like to be played either. Or be treated like an idiot.

They left Riga that night. He was half-asleep when they landed, a side-effect of the anti-anxiety medication he took for flying. Anthea and Jim were just as quiet. It hadn’t been a successful trip. They hadn’t learnt anything new, except Moriarty was a name to be feared. A name, a message, which was spreading throughout the continent. Even hardened criminals feared it - if they weren’t already working for it.

If Mycroft had built up a web of surveillance and intelligence in the United Kingdom and beyond, Moriarty had created the same in Eastern Europe and doubled it. Perhaps tripled it.

And Mycroft knew he couldn’t even trust entire Governments anymore. Who knew who Moriarty was blackmailing or doing work for? He could just as easily have been doing nothing but stalking Sherlock. But Mycroft knew that wasn’t true.

He spent long hours at the Coeur de Lion Offices chasing ghosts. He pinned up the photographs of every dead agent, as though they were now the police running an investigation. He saw their lifeless eyes in his head every time he tried to rest.

He watched his staff struggle with their own exhaustion. None of them had quite grasped the magnitude of what they were working on. But tensions ran high.

He found Stewart Trease leaning against the wall in the men’s toilets, his head dropped into his hands. His hands shook while he told Mycroft that he couldn’t sleep. That he felt unsafe even being in the building. That he felt watched. “And I don’t even think you care,” he snapped. “I don’t even think you appreciate how many people have died because of this fucking Moriarty person. And one of us will be next. We have to be. And I don’t think… God, why do you just not care?” And they’d he had stormed out, leaving Mycroft standing numbly in the middle of the room.

Stewart apologised the next day. Mycroft let him, without apologising back, though he knew the man deserved to hear it.

Every day felt like a backward step. Thoughts stormed through his head. He was forced to discard most of them. And he felt as though he was failing. His brother seemed unaffected. Crime scene after crime scene. Newspaper story after story. Hat Man and Robin. Net phenomenons.

He knew he couldn’t discourage Sherlock from his work, so he didn’t even try. So he was forced to watch it play out. Knowing that at any moment, something was bound to go wrong.

* * *

**September 2010.**

He left clues. He left messages. He tried to contact Moriarty in any way he could think of. If he couldn’t find Moriarty, then surely he could lure him out? It was a fishing expedition.

But he was struggling.

He hadn’t noticed it at first, not while he travelled from job to job, from meeting to meeting.

But at one a late-night conference, he found himself slurring his words, struggling to find the right things to say. He excused himself from it, realising a lack of sleep was beginning to cause problems. He took himself to bed, but he hardly slept.

His mind raced.

Thoughts were banging on his head but none of them were cohesive. He took a shaking breath and poured himself a glass of water. What helped? What solved this?

He closed his eyes as the answer came to mind. He knew what helped. He knew he couldn’t have it. But he visited New Scotland Yard the next day anyway, and the smile that spread over Greg’s face was enough to settle him, just a little.

“Alright, stranger?” Greg grinned as Mycroft entered his office.

“Yes, well, thank you.” He turned to Greg. There was a sandwich box in the bin, bought from the Tesco store next door. It was not the lunch Jane Starnes would have prepared for him, so they were clearly still separated… “I’m sorry I haven’t been around,” Mycroft said. “Are you alright?”

“Yeah, I’m fine. And no worries, you’re busy.”

Mycroft nodded and sunk into the chair on the other side of the desk. He noted Greg’s un-ironed shirt. Dark circles under his eyes. “You’re working too hard,” Mycroft said.

Greg smiled. “It’s a good distraction,” he said.

Mycroft frowned. “Are you sure you’re alright?”

“I’m fine. Thanks though.”

“I’m afraid this isn’t a social visit. Is this conversation between the two of us?”

“Of course it is.”

Mycroft nodded. “I’m trying to draw Moriarty out.”

“Draw him out? Out where?”

“Into revealing himself to Sherlock and John again.”

Greg raised his eyebrows. “Because that went so well when they both nearly got blown up last time.”

“It won’t get to that.”

“So, why are you telling me this?”

“I need you to keep your ear to the ground. Anything peculiar, any rumours of explosions or messages for Sherlock, I need to know about it.”

Greg raised his eyebrows. “I take it you don’t trust Sherlock to tell you himself.”

“Not at all.”

“He won’t talk to me,” Greg told him. “Not if he knows everything he’s saying is going back to you.”

“It’s a risk I’m willing to take.”

“Alright. If I hear anything, I’ll tell you.”

“Thank you.”

“They’re linking Moriarty to Al-Qaeda I the press. That’s not true, is it?”

“No,” Mycroft said. “Nonetheless, I’m not quashing the rumours. If a member of the general public hears the name Moriarty and has some information, they are more likely to tell the police if they believe he has links to a major terrorist organisation.”

“Makes sense to me.”

Mycroft stood up. “Thank you for your cooperation, Greg. It’s appreciated.” He made for the door and then stopped, turning back to him. “I’m sorry I’ve not been around. I was sorry to hear of your separation from your wife,” he lied.

“It’s fine,” Greg said, reaching up to touch his ear. His usual tell. Another lie in return.

“We will have dinner,” Mycroft told him, though he didn’t mean it. “Sometime soon. This business with Moriarty is taking up an alarming amount of my time.”

“Hey, it’s alright.” Greg smiled at him. “I know how it is. You don’t… don’t owe me anything. I know you’d call if you were free.”

Mycroft nodded his head. “I’ll be in touch.” He reached for the door handle.

“Hey, Mycroft?”

“Yes?”

“You’ll still come here yourself, right? If you need to take anything off me.”

“When I can, I always will.”

He swallowed and headed out of the door, no more relaxed. If anything, worse.

Within the next few days, he had Andrew Regis snivelling at his desk because he had a feeling he had inadvertently given some top secret information to the dominatrix by the name of Irene Adler.

And then there was the bomb threat. Another aeroplane, this time due to leave Heathrow for Baltimore. He sat in discussions about whether they could possibly try Bond Air again. Could it work, so soon after the first successful attempt?

In the end, they considered it worth a try and began to devise more plans. “We won’t confirm it until almost the last minute,” Mycroft told Hugh Seagroves as the meeting finished. “But we have an adequate amount of time to pull everything together.”

* * *

Hugh Seagroves called Mycroft one afternoon, to say he had a friend who needed someone to work for him. Mycroft arrived at Vauxhall Cross the next day a little bit past 6am.

Hugh was sitting with Harry Pridmore, a man Mycroft knew from reputation alone. He gave off the air of old money. Of someone who had spent his whole life in stately homes. The truth was, he was a self-made man, having started his career at sixteen years of age as an assistant in the kitchens at Buckingham Palace, emptying the bins and cleaning the ovens. Now he was one of the most-respected advisers to the royal family. But discreet. Oh so discreet. They shook hands as the introductions were made.

“One of my employers is involved in some interesting extra-curricular activities, to say the least,” Harry explained as Hugh poured them the tea.

“By interesting, you mean…”

“She has spent some time at the hands of a… well, I do suppose you call her a dominatrix.”

Mycroft raised his eyebrows. “This doesn’t sound like my area of expertise,” he replied.

“Nor mine,” Hugh said, passing Mycroft a mug. “But, Mycroft, who better than you to solve this out?”

“I’m at the end of my rope,” Harry added. “I need someone efficient, quick and discreet.”

Mycroft glanced between them, and took a small sip of his tea. “Then tell me everything.”

“My employer-”

“-Which one?” Mycroft cut in. “The highest in the land or one of her family?”

“It’s one of the princesses, if you must know. She engaged the services of a dominatrix called Irene Adler.”

Mycroft groaned. “I know of her. She was involved in two scandals prior to the General Election. Now she certainly is not discreet.”

“She took a significant number of photographs of my employer in some rather… compromising positions. And we need them back. Immediately.”

“She’s blackmailing you?”

“No. Actually. She contacted us to tell us she had the photographs and will not use them to extort either money or favour.

Mycroft sighed. “This isn’t exactly my… I carry out a lot of work. And I can’t spare the time. Nonetheless. My brother occasionally takes on the cases others cannot handle and I’m sure he will be of use to you.”

He researched Irene Adler. He found out as much about her as he could, which wasn’t a lot. But most of her clients were powerful men and women. Mycroft was quite sure that the Metropolitan Police’s Commander had visited her a few times, along with his partner Marie Tunstall. He knew she would have more than the photographs. So much more.

He arranged for a car and helicopter collect Sherlock and John respectively to take them to the Palace. And he arranged for a group of CIA-trained operatives to pay Miss Alder a visit of their own.

When Mycroft finally reached Sherlock and John at the palace, he found Sherlock dressed in a sheet, as the two of them giggled away.

It had been a while since Mycroft lost his temper in front of people. But he couldn’t help but snap at Sherlock, not after his immature spectacle. Sherlock grabbed his clothes, finally agreeing to get dressed. “Toilet?” he asked.

“Out there and to the left,” Harry told him.

Sherlock stamped out, his sheet trailing behind him like a wedding gown. Mycroft pulled a face and sat down in the chair. “My sincere apologies, Harry. What he has in immaturity I promise he more than makes up for in… brainpower.”

“No apologies necessary,” Harry said. “I assure you, I am quite familiar with your brother’s work. And you, of course, Doctor Watson.”

John smiled and sat down. “Well, we’re always grateful for cases.”

“I’ll have some tea brought out,” Harry said, reaching for his phone. “What do you all prefer?”

“Earl Grey is fine,” Mycroft said. “And I wouldn’t worry about Sherlock’s preferences. I can only apologise for him.”

“Don’t apologise,” Sherlock said as he emerged in the doorway, thankfully dressed. They looked up as someone brought them tea. Sherlock stood by the chair. “I do hope this isn’t going to take long.”

Mycroft raised his eyebrows. “Sherlock. Shut up.” Sherlock glared at him but sunk into the chair anyway. Mycroft reached out towards the teapot. “I’ll be mother,” he said.

“And there is a whole childhood in a nutshell,” Sherlock muttered. Mycroft glanced up at him and frowned. But before he could consider what he meant by it, Harry began to explain what had happened.

Eventually Sherlock agreed to take the case. He left with John, naturally, in tow. Mycroft let out an exasperated sigh. “He will get it done, I can assure you that, if nothing else.” He turned and shook Harry’s hand. “I will be in touch as soon as my brother is.”

He left the palace and got into the car. Cliff Crenshaw alerted him that some men with guns were en-route to Miss Alder’s Belgravia home, a little later than planned, but on their way nonetheless.

The next thing he knew, there had been a shooting at Miss Adler’s home. He sent some of his team to the Yard to pick up the files and close down the investigation. He didn’t go himself. He even handed Anthea the phone so she could deal with Greg.

He was creating distance, he told himself. Distance between him and Greg. To protect him from Moriarty. And to protect himself from… from entanglement in his feelings. From becoming trapped by them again.

He went to Baker Street the next morning, finding Sherlock and John eating toast. They’d failed. They hadn’t retrieved the photographs, nor anything else of interest. And neither had the CIA operatives.

“The photographs are perfectly safe,” Sherlock informed him.

Mycroft glared at him. “In the hands of a fugitive sex worker.”

“She’s not interested in blackmail. She wants protection for some reason.”

“How can we do anything while she has the photographs?” Mycroft asked. “Our hands are tied.”

“She’d applaud your choice of words. You see how this works. That camera phone is her get out of jail free card. You have to leave her alone. Treat her like royalty, Mycroft. There’s nothing you can do and nothing she will do as far as I can see.”

Mycroft glared at him and frowned as his phone rang. “Excuse me,” he murmured as he walked out to answer the call from Anthea. “Hello?”

“Hugh Seagroves has been on the phone,” she said. “They know more about the bomb. The exact flight, the precise date and time. An MOD man had the information. We need to move now on Bond Air. We need preparation time.”

“Where are we?” Mycroft asked.

“The Coventry lot… that’s the body collection team… are on standby. But Hugh needs the go-ahead to have the mechanics in the aeroplane changed so it can fly un-manned.”

“How certain are we that the information is correct?”

“As certain as we can be.”

Mycroft paused for a moment. “Very well.”

“There’s more,” Anthea said. “Hugh thinks Irene Adler has more than she’s letting on. He thinks she knows about the work GCHQ and the NSA have been doing together. She knows a lot more than just that.”

Mycroft frowned. “Then we had better keep an eye on her. Thank you, Anthea.”

“Bond Air?” she asked.

“Bond Air is go, that’s decided. Check with the Coventry lot. Talk later.” He hung up, wandering back into the living area.

“What else does she have?” Sherlock enquired. “Irene Adler. The Americans wouldn’t be interested in her for a couple of compromising photographs. There’s more. Something big’s coming, isn’t it?”

“Irene Adler is no longer any concern of yours. From now on you will stay out of this.”

“Oh, will I?”

“Yes, Sherlock, you will.” They kept their eyes locked together for a moment before Mycroft left. He visited Hugh Seagroves first, where he apologised for his inability to collect the photographs and the other information she was withholding.

Hugh revealed that they’d lost her. She had disappeared.

She would be back, that Mycroft was certain of.

* * *

**October 2010.**

The waiting game continued. Mycroft found himself on edge all the time, full of expectancy. He stared at Watchtower as though half the country was due to explode any second. But nothing happened.

He was being observed, he was sure of it. He was certain his actions were being scrutinised. Perhaps he was getting paranoid. Being driven mad by his own knowledge. But also by his own lack of knowledge. He despised being on the back foot.

And not only on the back foot with Moriarty, oh no.

Because Greg Lestrade was persistent with his friendship, even when Mycroft brushed him off and tried to push him away.

While Mycroft received only a card from his parents on the morning of his birthday, another card and present were waiting for him when he arrived at the office. He recognised the handwriting on the envelope immediately.

He sunk into the chair, slitting the envelope open with a letter opener. The card was simple, cheap, but chosen with care. ‘I hope that your birthday party is more fun than your political party,’ it said. Mycroft smiled a little and turned to the gift. It was a toy car. He frowned at it, pushing it with his index finger and watching as it rolled along his desk.

He was bewildered, until Bill came in and picked the car up, turning it in his hands. “Aston Martin DB5,” he explained. “It was introduced in the James Bond film Goldfinger. Beautiful car.”

And then Mycroft had more appreciation for the little car. It was an inside joke. One that spoke of friendship, built up over… God, had it really been five years?

He kept the gift inside his drawer, and occasionally when he couldn’t concentrate, he wheeled it along his desk. And for just a few moments, he felt like a child. A child with no cares in the world.

* * *

**November 2010.**

**Location: Gatwick Airport, London.**

He hadn’t intended to send Greg a birthday present in return. But a flight to Belgium from Gatiwck had been delayed, and he spent hours walking around the airport. He found the bobble-headed policeman in a novelty gift shop. And he couldn’t resist buying it for Greg.

* * *

**December 2010.**

**Location: New Scotland Yard, London.**

He met Greg at New Scotland Yard. He arrived before Greg and took a seat at his desk. He watched out of the window as Greg’s colleagues milled about, glancing in at the office and muttering among themselves.

He wanted to find out what Greg - and therefore Sherlock - knew about the dead man who hadn’t been on the aeroplane that exploded over Dusseldorf. He knew Sherlock had several clients whose family members had been on the aeroplane. He wanted to ensure Sherlock was not figuring things out about the Bond Air project.

When Greg walked in, he had a few dog hairs attached to his coat. Mycroft recognised the signs immediately. “You’ve fixed things with your wife,” Mycroft said.

“Yeah. Yeah, just last night.”

“Congratulations.”

Greg shrugged. “That doesn’t seem like the right word somehow. But yeah. Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.”

Greg crossed his arms. “What can I do for you anyway?”

“I want your papers for the man found in a car in Southwark.”

“The guy who was meant to be on the plane?”

“Yes.”

“But that was months ago.” Greg shrugged and sat down at his computer. “We haven’t got much. None of it made any sense, so… I hope this is all you want, because it’s all I’ve got.” Greg stood up and took the paper from the printer before handing it over.

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

Mycroft stood up, taking hold of his umbrella. “And will you be attending Sherlock’s Christmas gathering?”

“No, not in the end. We’re going to Dorset.”

“A pity,” Mycroft said. “I’m sure it would be a joyous occasion.”

“Speaking of joyous occasions…” Greg opened the drawer of his desk and took out a small box. “I was going to drop this round to your office at some point, but since you’re here, you might as well have this now.” Mycroft took it from him. “Open it on Christmas Day,” Greg said. “Not right now.”

“Of course. Thank you.”

Greg smiled at him. “Well. I’ll see you soon yeah?”

“Of course.” Mycroft half smiled and left. He travelled to Vauxhall Cross after that, to put some of the final pieces together for the Bond Air project. When he arrived back at the Coeur de Lion Offices, he found Sherlock sat on his desk, arms crossed.

Mycroft raised his eyebrows and wordlessly slipped his coat off, hanging it on the back of his chair. Sherlock swivelled round, craning his head round to look at Mycroft. They stared at each other. Long moments of silence passed.

“Christmas?” Sherlock asked.

Mycroft narrowed his eyes. “You’ve been shopping.”

“John made me.”

“Of course. And you allow yourself to be coerced into that sort of thing these days.”

“You shop.”

“Yes, I shop. For myself. Why are you here, exactly?”

“It’s your turn to see our parents for the festivities.”

“Not this year,” Mycroft said, taking a seat. “I’ve already decided I’m going to Oak Manor.”

Sherlock frowned at him and sprung off the desk. “They’re asking me about you.”

“Then tell them I’m very busy and important.”

Sherlock snorted. “What did you get them?”

“Added security. And removal from the electoral roll.”

“They won’t be pleased when they realise they can’t vote in the next election.”

“Well, perhaps they won’t mind so much when the press can’t track them down,” Mycroft pointed out. “You’re hardly being… discreet.”

“I never invited it.”

Mycroft frowned at him. “Invited it or not, it’s happening.”

Sherlock shrugged and fastened his coat. “I’ll tell mummy you don’t want to see them then, shall I?”

“Go right ahead,” Mycroft told him. “I doubt they’ll be surprised.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes and walked out of the office. Mycroft groaned and rubbed his head. He left his office to search for Anthea. He found her in the Moriarty Operation Room, the staff ready for a final briefing before Christmas.

Mycroft filled them in on the security protocols for the festive period. He told them to keep an eye out for Irene Adler. And then he sat at the back while Anthea told them about shift patterns. Uninterested in the mundaneness of shifts, he typed out a message to Greg.

 

MESSAGES  
7.14pm: I’m hoping for a Christmas  
miracle to make Sherlock shut up.  
One day of silence is all I ask. M

 

MESSAGES Greg Lestrade  
7.17pm: If it were possible, I’d have  
bought you that for Xmas. But I don’t  
think it would be possible to wrap?

 

MESSAGES  
7.20pm: I had hoped Doctor Watson  
would improve the situation. He  
is driving me to distraction. M

 

MESSAGES Greg Lestrade  
7.21pm: It’s only made him much  
much worse. What you doing anyway?  
Didn’t think you were much of a  
texter?

 

MESSAGES  
7.23pm: Stuck in last minute meetings,  
I’m afraid. Not long until I get  
a few days off. M

 

MESSAGES Greg Lestrade  
7.24pm: Sucks to be you right now then.  
Am watching a film. We should do a  
movie night when you’re free.

 

He went to the shops after that. He popped into his favourite old book store and found a copy of Goldfinger by Ian Fleming. He knew at once that it was the perfect gift. He had the book gift-wrapped in the shop, and travelled to New Scotland Yard, where he left it on Greg’s desk.

Then he drove himself to Oak Manor. He lit the fire and had a bath. He relaxed for the first time in months, his muscles soothed by the hot water. But even then, his head didn’t stop swirling. He had too much going on to be completely at ease. But it was better than nothing.

He spent Christmas Eve going for a long walk through the surrounding fields. It cleared his head a little. By the time he got home, the sun was just setting and his casserole was almost ready. He ate it in the dining room, sitting at the head of the table. He stared down at the seats, once filled with family members.

There weren’t many of them left now. They were either dead or had distanced themselves from the family name. He noticed the silence when he went to bed and listened to the wind howling at the windows. A place he’d once called home felt more hollow than ever now.

He read on Christmas Day and opened the cufflinks from Greg. He watched as the snow began to fall. He sat himself beside the fire in the dining room, drink in hand.

He looked up a little startled as his phone began to ring. He checked the name and frowned when he saw it was Sherlock.

“Oh dear Lord,” he said. “We’re not going to have Christmas phone calls now, are we? Have they passed a new law?”

“I think you’re going to find Irene Adler tonight,” Sherlock said.”

“We already know where she is. As you were kind enough to point out, it hardly matters.”

“No, I mean you’re going to find her dead.” And then Sherlock hung up. Mycroft paused, staring out of the window to the snow. There was sorrow in Sherlock’s voice, he thought. A haunted quality to it, almost.

He sighed and rang Cliff Crenshaw, and asked him to find out what he could. He had to wait for Kamik to bring the car to him, before they drove to Baker Street. While he travelled, he received the news a body matching Irene Adler’s description had been found, her face smashed in, beyond recognition.

He rang Sherlock. “They’ve found a body matching her description,” he said. “They’re taking her to St Bartholomew’s now. I can take you there.”

“I don’t need you to come.”

“No, but I will anyway. I’ll be at Baker Street in half an hour.” And then he hung up, staring out into the streets as they passed. Eventually he arrived at 221 Baker Street. He let himself in and walked up the stairs. He glanced around.

John was sat with the woman he was seeing. A teacher. Mrs Hudson was trying to encourage Sherlock to eat a mince pie. And Greg… looked distracted from where he sat by the window. Mycroft turned to Sherlock. As expected, his face was a mask. If he felt anything at all, he hid it well.

“Found her?” Sherlock asked.

“Possibly,” Mycroft said.

“I’ll get my coat.” Sherlock marched back to his bedroom. Mycroft turned his head as Greg began to walk towards him.

“Everything alright?” Greg asked. Mycroft pressed his lips together. “Mycroft?” Greg pressed.

“I don’t know.” Mycroft studied him properly. Greg was a sociable man. For him to be sitting by the window alone… “Oh, what did he do this time?”

“What?” Greg asked.

“Sherlock. He told you something.”

Greg sighed. “Jane’s cheating. Again. Still. I don’t know.”

Mycroft nodded his head once. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s alright.”

“Thank you for the cufflinks.”

Greg smiled. “You’re welcome.”

“I have left something for you on your desk at work,” Mycroft said.

“Are you two quite finished?” Sherlock interrupted. “Mycroft. Come.” Sherlock turned and stormed out of the flat.

Mycroft sighed, waiting for a few seconds before reaching out to touch Greg’s arm, just briefly. “I promise we will have dinner.”

Greg nodded. “That’d be good. Cheers.”

Mycroft hesitated for a moment, torn. What could he say to this man he loved who always got hurt by those he cared about? Greg nodded at him, as though telling him to go to see Sherlock.

“Well, I should be off,” Mycroft said. “Goodnight, Greg.”

“Night.”

Mycroft turned to John. “Will you please check everywhere for drugs?”

John frowned. “Sure, but…”

“I’ll offer him a cigarette. If he takes it, it’s likely to be a danger night. Sherlock and Greg’s pact has been a good one. They’re both stubbornly refusing to smoke. But if Sherlock is willing to lose, is willing to accept a cigarette, we will be right to be concerned.” Greg stared at him. He had no idea Mycroft had thought about their non-smoking and non-drug taking deal that deeply. “I’ll be in touch.” Mycroft turned back to Greg. “Greg, I will call you.”

“Cheers.”

Mycroft shot John one more look before jogging down the stairs. Sherlock was already in the car, tapping his fingers impatiently against his knees. They exchanged a brief look but didn’t say anything as Mycroft told Kamik where to drive.

Sherlock used his access card to let them into the morgue. Molly lifted the sheet, revealing the dead woman’s bashed in face. And then she revealed her body.

“That’s her,” Sherlock said as he began to walk away.

Mycroft looked at Molly. “Thank you, Miss Hooper.”

“Who is she?” Molly asked. “How did Sherlock recognise her from… not her face?”

Mycroft tried to smile at her before turning on his heel to find Sherlock. He felt a little sympathy for Molly Hooper. He knew what it was like, after all. To be in love with someone who for one reason or another, could never be his. He found Sherlock staring out of the window, out into the snow and the night. He offered Sherlock a cigarette. And he took it.

“How did you know she was dead?” Mycroft asked him.

“She had an item in her possession, one she said her life depended on. She chose to give it up.”

“Where is this item now?”

Sherlock looked up at the sound of sobbing down the corridor, not answering the question.

“Look at them,” Sherlock said. They were a family overwhelmed by grief, stood behind the doors. Clearly they’d lost a family member. They were crying. Letting their feelings go through sobs, as though the sound of their cries could bring them comfort, or bring their loved one back. “They all care so much,” Sherlock continued. “Do you ever wonder if there’s something wrong with us?”

“All lives end,” Mycroft reminded him. “All hearts are broken.” He turned to Sherlock. “Caring is not an advantage. Sherlock.”

Sherlock blew out some smoke and sneered down at the cigarette in disgust. “This is low tar.”

“Well, you barely knew her.”

Sherlock began to walk away. “Merry Christmas, Mycroft.”

“And a happy New Year.” He watched him go before calling John and informing him Sherlock took the cigarette. “You have to stay with him, John.”

“I’ve got plans,” John said.

“No.” He hung up. He continued his walk down the corridor. He could hear the crying family, the sobs more restrained now. He didn’t remember what that was like. To feel so much pain that the only option was to cry, to feel those emotions be yanked from his body. He had got into the habit of burying his pain away. He had learnt to numb it. Otherwise he was sure he would have gone mad.

His parents never cried, not in front of their children anyway. Their father coped by re-arranging the furniture. Their mother would lock herself away for days on end. ‘You have to look after Sherlock’, she’d said on one such occasion, before hiding herself away. Mycroft vividly remembered cooking eggs and watching Sherlock dejectedly feed Redbeard scraps of cold meat.

Sherlock felt grief. Mycroft was sure he could see it on his brother’s face, no matter how stoic he appeared. Mycroft had done the same when he left Greg. That had been grief he had felt. The man hadn’t died, but their relationship had. Blown out like a candle.

Caring really wasn’t an advantage. But that didn’t mean he didn’t feel it, deep within himself. He felt it for Sherlock. He felt it for Greg. He felt it for his parents, though never as acutely as he thought he should have done.

He read John’s blog that night. _Irene Adler_ , it said. _She's gone and he won't dare admit it but he's devastated. He can't show it and I don't think he understands what he's feeling. Sometimes he's so cut off from everything, so cold, so lacking in emotion that when he does feel something... well I think it's the one thing on this planet he'll never quite get._

Mycroft sent a CIA operative to retrieve whatever it was Sherlock had taken from Irene Adler. But he attacked Martha Hudson. And in turn, Sherlock attacked her assailant, leaving him with several broken ribs. Mycroft wandered into the CIA operative’s hospital room, closing the door behind him.

“Is that what they teach you in the CIA nowadays?” Mycroft asked, taking a few slow steps towards his bed. “To attack older women? You don’t know, of course, that she was a victim of domestic abuse for many years. I’m sure your brutality has done wonders for her sense of security.”

Mycroft wandered closer to the bed, pressing his hand down against the man’s ribs, finding one he knew was broken. The man cried out in pain. “You work for me," Mycroft said, his voice low and threatening. "You don’t torture innocent bystanders. You don’t punch women. You don’t attack people who just happen to get in your way.” The man nodded, desperately trying to wriggle away. Mycroft pressed his hand down harder and the man bit back a yell. “Am I making myself clear?” Mycroft asked through gritted teeth.

The man nodded dumbly. Mycroft took a step back, removing his hand. The man winced in pain. Mycroft turned and stormed out without another word.

_Irene Adler is alive_ , John’s blog proclaimed. Mycroft let it slide. For now.

* * *

**January 2011.**

**Location: Oak Manor, Oxfordshire.**

He returned to Oak Manor. There were just a few days to go until Bond Air went ahead. He ate some breakfast and went to the kitchen to put the plates away.

He frowned as he received a text message, just as he returned to the dining room. He took a seat and opened the message.

 

MESSAGES  
10.55am: Jumbo Jet. Dear me Mr Holmes,  
dear me.

 

No. His chest clenched. How? He stared at the message, knowing who it was from without even without needing to check. The terrorists knew. Moriarty knew. He rubbed his face. The plan could have saved hundreds, perhaps thousands of lives had they been able to repeat it more than twice. But no more.

But how…

He frowned, as he thought back to John’s blog. Irene Adler wasn’t dead. She had the ability to gather information from anyone and she stored it away. Sold it away?

He thought to Sherlock, overawed by her death, silent in his grief but grieving nonetheless. Only for her to return out of the blue. To give that information to Sherlock, who would have figured it out in seconds, so eager would he be to impress her.

Another step backwards.

Another failure. Sherlock had destroyed years of work. Put lives at risk. His brother thought he could see clearer than anyone, but in truth he was blind to everything going on around him. He couldn’t see the full picture. And his ego, the ego John Watson pandered to and pampered, was more inflated than ever when given a puzzle and a woman clever enough to make him dance…

He felt sick as he called Hugh Seagroves and told him Bond Air was off. The terrorists knew about the bomb. Hugh told him the aeroplane was already full of bodies. Mycroft told him to leave it there on the runway until nightfall. They had no other options.

He poured himself a brandy. He tried to map out his next move. To find a way to make Sherlock appreciate what he had done.

So he sent Max and Malcolm to Baker Street, complete with an airline pass. He expected Miss Adler would follow. He stood in the terminal, watching as the car was driven up to the aeroplane, where Sherlock would meet the man whose ribs he had broken.

Mycroft waited and then walked outside, across the tarmac and climbed up the stairs.

“The Coventry conundrum,” he told Sherlock. “What do you think of my solution?”

“The ‘plane blows up mid-air,” Sherlock realised. “Mission accomplished for the terrorists. Hundreds of casualties, but nobody dies.”

“Neat, don’t you think? We ran a similar project with the Germans a while back, though I believe one of our passengers didn’t make the flight. But that’s the deceased for you. Late, in every sense of the word.”

“How’s the plane going to fly?” Sherlock asked. “Of course. Unmanned aircraft. Hardly new.”

“It doesn’t fly,” Mycroft informed him. “It will never fly. This entire project is cancelled. The terrorist cells have been informed that we know about the bomb. We can’t fool them now. We’ve lost everything. One fragment of one email, and months and years of planning finished.”

“Your MOD man.”

“That’s all it takes. One lonely naïve man desperate to show off, and a woman clever enough to make him feel special.”

“Hmm. You should screen your defence people more carefully.”

“I’m not talking about the MOD man, Sherlock, I’m talking about you,” Mycroft snapped at him. “The damsel in distress. In the end, are you really so obvious? Because this was textbook. The promise of love, the pain of loss, the joy of redemption. Then give him a puzzle and watch him dance.” He looked up as Irene sauntered onto the aeroplane. “I drove you into her path,” Mycroft murmured. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”

“Mr Holmes, I think we need to talk,” she said to Mycroft. “There’s more. Loads more. On this phone I’ve got secrets, pictures and scandals that could topple your whole world. You have no idea how much havoc I can cause and exactly one way to stop me. Unless you want to tell your masters that your biggest security leak is your own little brother.”

Mycroft pursed his lips. “This is hardly a secure location. I’ll have you driven to our family estate. I’m sure you’ll find it… to your tastes.”

Irene smiled, looking at him through her lashes. “I’m sure I will. I have immaculate taste after all.”

“Wait, what-” Sherlock began.

“Don’t say a word,” Mycroft snapped at him. “Miss Adler. After you.”

She flashed him another smile before heading down the stairs. At the bottom, Max took her hand to help her down the final step. “Are all your staff so obliging?” she asked as Mycroft began his own descent.

“It doesn’t rank as a priority in job interviews,” Mycroft told her, holding the car door open for her. He watched as she slid gracefully onto one of the leather seats. “But I suppose it comes with its own benefits. Please. Enjoy the selection of drinks. I’m sure you feel as though you deserve the champagne.”

“Don’t mind if I do,” she replied, before Mycroft shut the door. He pointed to another of the cars. “In there,” he told Sherlock, walking towards a third car.

“But-”

“-I want you out of my sight,” Mycroft snapped at him. “Do you have any idea…” He frowned and stopped himself. “We’re going to Oak Manor.”

“No.”

Mycroft glared at him. “You don’t have a choice, Sherlock.”

“Just take her to Crusader House. It’s bourgeois enough for her tastes.”

“You’re not in the position to make demands on this occasion,” Mycroft replied before getting in the car. He frowned and rubbed his forehead.

He watched out of the window as he was driven to Oak Manor. His car was first to pull up on the driveway. He held the large front door open for Irene and began to lead her through to the dining room.

“Going to give me a history lecture?” she asked.

“Do you want one?”

“Not particularly,” she replied. “Why does no one live here anymore?”

“It got too big,” Mycroft lied, holding open the door to the dining room. “Please. Make yourself comfortable.”

She smiled and took a seat at the dining table, and put the phone down on it. Sherlock took a seat by the fire. For once, he was silent.

Mycroft took a seat opposite Irene. He glanced at the phone. “We have people who can get into this,” he told her.

“There are four additional units wired inside the casing, I suspect containing acid or a small amount of explosive,” Sherlock explained. “Any attempt to open the casing will burn the hard drive.”

“Some data is always recoverable.”

“Take that risk?” Irene asked.

“You have a passcode to open this,” Mycroft replied. “I deeply regret to say we have people who can extract it from you,” Mycroft said, thinking of the Black Sites, all available to him with one phone call.

“There will be two passcodes,” Sherlock said. “One to open the phone, one to burn the drive. Even under duress you can’t know which one she’s given you and there will be no point in a second attempt.”

Mycroft frowned. “We destroy this, then. No one has the information.”

“Fine,” Irene said. “Good idea. Unless there are lives of British citizens depending on the information you’re about to burn.”

Mycroft studied her. “Are there?”

“Telling you would be playing fair. I’m not playing any more.” She smiled and handed him an envelope. “A list of my requests. And some ideas about my protection once they’re granted.”

Mycroft read them, aghast at her demands “You’ve been very thorough. I wish our lot were half as good as you.”

“I can’t take all the credit. Had a bit of help. Oh, Jim Moriarty sends his love. I had all this stuff, never knew what to do with it. Thank God for the consultant criminal. Gave me a lot of advice about how to play the Holmes boys. D’you know what he calls you?” she asked Mycroft. “The Ice Man.”

But then Sherlock stood up. He walked towards her. Declared that she got carried away and the game was far too elaborate. And then he unlocked the phone.

Sherlock held it out to Mycroft. “There you are, brother. I hope the contents make up for any inconvenience I may have caused you tonight.”

“I’m certain they will.”

“If you’re feeling kind, lock her up,” Sherlock said. “Otherwise let her go. I doubt she’ll survive long without her protection.”

She begged him not to do it. That she would only last six months. But Sherlock left the room and then the house, the sound of the front door closing echoing throughout the building. Irene stood motionless. Her hands by her sides.

Mycroft took a handkerchief from his pocket and held it out to her. She dabbed the tears away from underneath her eyes.

“I would beg-” she began.

“-But it’s not really your style, is it?” Mycroft wandered over to the decanter and poured them both a glass of whiskey. She turned to face him, watching. He handed her a glass. “You could beg and plead with me all you liked. But you have already revealed to me that Jim Moriarty regards me to be… made of ice. A machine. And you’re clever enough to know that begging won’t work on me. It didn’t even work on Sherlock just now, and he’s got rather sentimental about you.”

Mycroft took a seat, flashing her a cool smile as he sipped his whiskey. “Secrets are rather more trouble than they’re worth, aren’t they, Miss Adler? We get so awfully fond of secrets. We think secrets are power. But they hold those who are being secretive to ransom just as much as those who are being kept in the dark.”

“I could… What do you want me to do?” she asked.

“I want you to go away. I also want to know what you know about Jim Moriarty. But I happen to know that you won’t tell me everything. Not if you think I will release you back out into the world 10 minutes later, where you will almost certainly die. If I release you into some witness protection programme, Jim Moriarty will know you gave up your secrets to me. If I had you tortured for the information and then released you, he would still know you gave him up. I know I am being watched. Do take a seat, Miss Adler.”

She frowned at him for a moment before sliding into the chair opposite. “I don’t understand.”

“Good.” Mycroft sipped his drink. “You played a good game to the last,” he told her. “You had the upper hand for… pretty much all of it. I have the phone. I have… a sizeable chunk of your secrets, including, I imagine, those you haven’t been able to decipher. So, perhaps, on this occasion, that is enough.” He stood up. “Please enjoy the whiskey. Then you can see yourself out. There is a car outside. It will take you to any destination you want. Any country of your choosing. And then your life… it’s in your hands.”

He slowly stood up. “Well played, Miss Adler,” he said softly. “Well played.” And then he turned and walked away, heading into his mother’s former study to find a book to read, before locking the door behind him. 


	51. Reconnaissance

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh God, I hope this works... Canon-ville is a scary place!

**January 2011.**

**Location: Oak Manor, Oxfordshire.**

He almost felt relaxed. He sat in the old chair in the corner of his mother’s old study, the cushions worn but not uncomfortably so. The room smelt like books. It had an underlying mustiness, mixing with the smells of softened paper and inks. He leafed through the pages of The Turn Of The Screw by Henry James, his favourite book. He hadn’t read it in a long time, and this had always been his favourite copy.

The moment he heard the front door close as Irene Adler finally left, he lowered the book, letting the spine rest in his lap. He sat back in his chair. He had been weighing up his options for two hours, waiting for her to leave. He took a long breath before reaching for his phone. And he called Arnou Fortier.

“Hello?” Arnou replied, the sound of a television being muted in the background.

“Are you alone?” Mycroft asked.

“I am. Is Anthea-”

“-Anthea’s fine. I have a job for you.”

There was a long pause. “I know what kind of work you offer,” Arnou said. “I don’t play that game anymore.”

“You bring Anthea and myself nothing but danger. Do this for me and we will consider it even.”

Arnou paused for a second. “What do you need?”

“A woman by the name of Irene Adler is currently in one of my cars with Cliff Crenshaw. Have you ever met him?”

“No.”

“Cliff has an interesting story. He has been a field agent for 10 years. But he started out as an interpretor in the British courts. He can speak a number of languages. And aside from Jim Braum, whom I believe you have met, he is the best weapons handler on my team. Perhaps better. His fighting skills are… surprising. And outstanding.”

“Why are you telling me this?”

“Cliff is currently taking Miss Adler to Pakistan. He is going to follow her there. And I’d like you to join him.”

“I can’t. There are too many risks there.”

“You can take them out,” Mycroft told him. “Put an end to the threat following yourself and Anthea. Cliff will assist, where he can.”

“What’s the aim?”

“I will email you Cliff’s contact details. He knows the mission. Stay in touch. And good luck.” Mycroft hung up and reached for Irene’s old phone. He began to go through its contents.

There were photographs of numerous politicians, celebrities and members of the aristocracy. They were worth nothing but as blackmail material, but Mycroft chose to keep the pictures. Just in case he had need of them in the future.

There were some top secret plans too. British ones, American ones, French ones. Some of which had already been leaked to the press in the past two years. She had the Bruce-Partington Programme notes, though they were out-of-date.

But there was more. Little clues and hints at bigger developments. Missions the CIA was working on. Problems Mycroft had been working on. The last-known whereabouts of Interpol’s most wanted man, Peter Ricoletti. He sent Hugh Seagroves a few bits and pieces, enough to keep him occupied for a while. But the majority of the information, he kept for himself.

He went for a walk through the house’s gardens before he left Oak Manor. He walked up the narrow path to the secluded corner under the arbour, until he reached the gate at the bottom. The stream, which barely existed in the summer, was close to overflowing, the water rushing, overwhelmed by the rain and snow from the past few days.

Mycroft slid the phone out of his pocket. He took out the tiny memory card and snapped it in half, dropping the pieces into the river. Only a few seconds later, they were out of sight, carried away by the water.

He returned to London, prepared to placate everyone he knew, in one way or another. The first first was Anthea, who was sat in his office when he arrived at work, clearly waiting for him.

“Arnou has nothing to do with this,” she said before they even exchanged a ‘good morning’. “If he dies…”

“Arnou is a professional,” Mycroft told her, taking the paperwork she handed over. “This is his world. He’ll be fine.”

“I’ll quit if anything happens to him.”

Mycroft nodded. “Then for both our sakes. Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that.” He took a seat. “I assume everything is in place for… the extraction plan.”

Anthea nodded. “Yes. Cliff and Arnou are in regular contact.”

“Good. Very good. We won’t be left behind this time, Anthea. I won’t allow it.”

He saw Hugh Seagroves next, to hand over some of the contents of Irene Adler’s phone. Then it was Harry Pridmore from the palace, so they could delete his employer’s photographs together.

And finally he visited Greg at New Scotland Yard, knowing he had spent Christmas Day coming to terms with his wife’s infidelity. Again. Greg appeared tired when Mycroft arrived. A little distracted too, perhaps. But it was evident he was no longer with his wife.

“You alright?” Greg asked.

Mycroft nodded and slid into the seat opposite. “Yes. Thank you. And yourself?”

“Not perfect, but not bad either really. Considering. How’d everything go on Christmas Day? Did he… drugs and stuff?”

“No. Not as far as I am aware.”

“Good,” Greg said. “I’ve been worrying.”

“Likewise.”

“What’s going on?” Greg asked.

“Irene Adler was apparently dead. It rather inexplicably affected Sherlock.”

“Wow. That’s… unusual.”

Mycroft nodded. “Quite. I’ve taken care of the situation with the burglar. So you needn’t worry about your report being exposed as a false account.”

Greg smiled gratefully. “I really appreciate that. Thank you. Bloke had quite a fall.”

Mycroft hummed his agreement. “He did indeed.”

Greg studied him. “You look worried.”

Mycroft frowned. “Do I?”

“A bit, yeah. Don’t worry, I’m sure most people wouldn’t notice it.”

Mycroft paused. He would need to try much harder to hide his feelings from Greg in the coming months. “And how are you? Really?”

Greg shrugged. “Mostly alright. I’m keeping pretty quiet about it all to be honest. Just can’t believe it keeps happening to me. That’s two divorces now. Well, eventually two divorces anyway. I mean, what is it about me? Do I have a sign on my head that says ‘doormat’ on it?”

“No.”

“It’s just, Caroline first and then Jane. Why?”

“It’s not in anyway your fault.”

“It feels like it.”

“You simply married women with more needs than you could ever hope to fulfil. That is through no fault of your own.” Mycroft paused, chewing over his next words. “But those in need of saving are rather drawn to you, and likewise you to them.”

Greg snorted. “Sherlock said that to me once. But it’s not true.”

Mycroft raised his eyebrows. “No? I rather think people are drawn to your caring nature.”

“Doesn’t go well for me though, does it?”

“Perhaps not on this occasion, no.”

Greg sighed. “It’s fine, I’m alright.”

“Of course,” Mycroft said, not sure he believed him.

“Is there anything else you need?” Greg asked.

Mycroft stood up. “No. Thank you. I’m out of the country for the rest of the month, but I believe I am free on February 12. Dinner?”

“Love to,” Greg said.

“Excellent. I’m sorry it isn’t sooner. I wish it were.”

“It’s alright. Honest.”

Mycroft nodded. “Have a good month.”

“You too.”

Mycroft smiled a little. “Unlikely, with these meetings. But I will try.”

Greg laughed. “See you soon, Mycroft.”

“Yes, take care.”

* * *

For the next few weeks, he returned to his usual duties, doing work for the Government. In some ways, it made a welcome change from his preoccupation with Moriarty.

Moriarty was contacting him. But Mycroft chose to ignore him and tasked his team with tracking him down.

* * *

 

**February 2011.**

**Location: Crusader House, Pall Mall, London.**

He took a few days after he returned to get over the jet lag. And then he spent the same amount of time forcing himself to call Greg to cancel their dinner. But every time his thumb hovered over the ‘call’ button, he couldn’t bring himself to do it.

He thought himself horribly weak. It should have been easy to initiate the 30-second call. Instead, he couldn’t even bring himself to listen to the phone ring. So there he sat, a drink in hand, watching a map as Irene Adler travelled across Asia.

He looked up as Greg was let in, a shopping bag in one hand. “I’ve got your books,” he said.

It brought a smile to Mycroft’s face. “Mycroft Holmes’ library service to the rescue then,” he replied, standing up. It had been more than a month since he’d last seen him, but he looked better. More awake, more relaxed. “Can I offer you a drink?”

“I’ll have what you’re having, cheers.”

Mycroft closed his laptop and walked over to the drinks table. “How were the books?” he asked.

“There was one I really liked. I think I’d read it again. The Orwell one.”

“Animal Farm is one of my favourites also.”

Greg smiled and took a seat on the settee. “It’s good. And then I finished Goldfinger the other day. Thanks for that, by the way. It’s got pride of place on my new bookcase.”

“You bought a bookcase? Will the Mycroft Holmes Library Service be closing down soon?”

Greg laughed. “No chance. I don’t have any books to fill it with.”

Mycroft laughed too and gave him a drink. He took the bag from Greg and began to slide the books back into their rightful positions. “What are you in the mood for?” he asked.

“Something a bit funny. Do you have some comedies?”

“Certainly.”

Mycroft browsed the books, taking a few out before putting them onto the table. “I think these should be sufficient for a while.”

“That’s great. Thanks for this.”

“I may need to invest in some more books myself,” Mycroft said, running his finger along the cover of one. “I’ve included one of my favourites in this pile, I wonder if you will be able to work out which it is?”

Greg looked up at him and smiled. “I’ll let you know.”

“Right.” Mycroft nodded once. “Very good. Dinner.”

“What are we having?”

“Lasagne,” Mycroft said.

Greg grinned. “Your lasagne is brilliant.”

“I’ll open a bottle of wine and give it time to breathe.” He wandered through to the kitchen and emptied out a bottle of wine into a decanter. He opened the oven and checked the lasange. He tried to work out when Greg had tried it before. Eventually he pictured a storm raging outside. And them sitting on the settee watching a film. It felt like a lifetime ago, when they’d been that comfortable together, watching films, eating lasagne... Before… everything went wrong.

“The lasagne is almost ready,” Mycroft told him as he joined him on the settee. “And how are you?”

“I’m good actually,” Greg said. “Better than I thought I was going to be.”

“And you’re filing for divorce?”

“Yup. Already put in some paperwork. Jane and I want the same thing, it’s pretty simple. We don’t share bank accounts or own a house together, so it’s all a pretty cut and dry split. Not great. But not difficult as far as being practical is concerned.”

Mycroft nodded. “I really am very sorry.”

“It’s alright. Win some and lose some.” Greg managed a smile. “Or at least, I do. I guess you don’t lose very often.”

“Not if I can help it, no.”

Greg laughed. “So, how is everything going in the world of Mycroft then?”

“It’s not too bad, thank you. Things are rather swimming along.”

“And Moriarty?”

“Appears to be rather obsessed. He keeps getting in contact.”

Greg frowned. “With you?”

“Yes, well. That isn’t a matter you need concern yourself with.”

“Even though I am concerned?”

Mycroft held his eyes. “You have no need to be. It’s all perfectly in-hand.”

Greg nodded and had a sip of his drink. “Alright, yeah. I believe you.”

“Thank you. I’ll just check on dinner.”

Mycroft stood up and wandered back into the kitchen, inwardly cursing himself. This was a bad idea. He didn’t know where Moriarty was. The man just sent him pictures, taunts, veiled threats. And he would surely see Greg had been to Crusader House and just know. He would know how much Mycroft needed him. He would know that Greg mattered.

He dropped some salad onto the plates. He checked the oven again. “It’s done!” he called out.

Greg joined him in the kitchen, but rather than sitting down, he began to lay the table. It had always been like that, Mycroft knew. Familiar and easy. Greg had always made himself at home at Crusader House. He knew it needed to stop. But just like he couldn’t make that phone call to cancel dinner, he couldn’t find the words to send Greg away.

He had been strong enough to say goodbye to the man he loved once. And he couldn’t bear to do it again. Mycroft dished up the lasagne and carried over their plates.

“This really smells amazing,” Greg said.

“I enjoyed making it,” Mycroft replied. "I wish I had more time to cook.”

“I’m getting better. When Caroline first left I think I was terrible. But I’ve got quite a good selection of meals now. I’ll have to invite you over. I’m sorry I haven’t.”

Mycroft shook his head. “Not at all, I’m sure our schedules rarely complement each other. It’s far easier if I tell you when I’m free.”

“Yeah, but when you’re free, I can still cook. And I will, alright?”

“I would like that.”

“Me too.”

They shared a brief smile before Greg had a mouthful of his food. He groaned, and Mycroft wished he wouldn’t make that sound. It brought back too many memories of Greg’s legs wrapped around his waist as he drove into him… God. Those were images he had tried to suppress for so long. And now Greg was single again... No. He couldn't think that way.

“I take it back,” Greg said. “I’m not cooking for you, you’re too good.”

Mycroft smiled. “That’s not true, but thank you.”

Greg laughed. “It’s true.”

Mycroft looked across at him. “Greg. Really and truthfully, how are you?”

Greg paused, swallowing a mouthful. “Really and truthfully?” Greg shrugged. “Better than I should be maybe. Not finding it as difficult as I did the first time we split up. And not as difficult as it was with Caroline either. It’s the right thing and I know that.”

“And how is she?”

“No idea really. We’ve only spoken a bit through text trying to sort the divorce out and stuff.”

“I fear I have been a poor…” Mycroft frowned. “I fear I’ve been a poor friend to you.”

Greg smiled a bit. “No, don’t worry, you haven’t been.”

Mycroft nodded. “Nonetheless, I intend to make it up to you. I have some new films to watch.”

“Right,” Greg said, a curious expression on his face. “Well, great. I can’t wait to choose one.”

“They were all Anthea’s recommendations.”

“I bet she picked some good ones. Want a hand washing up?”

“You really don’t need to.”

“Yeah, but I’m doing it anyway.” Greg stood up and carried their plates over to the sink. “Wash or dry?”

“I believe it’s my turn to wash.”

Greg laughed and turned the taps on. Mycroft joined him at his side, pouring in the washing-up liquid. “How is it you’re so neat and Sherlock’s place is a tip?” Greg asked.

Mycroft smiled, a little fondness there, trying to remember if it had always been that way. “He is very much like a hurricane. Destruction everywhere.” Mycroft began to clean the dishes, handing them to Greg as they were washed.

“So what weather were you as a kid then then?” Greg asked. “The calm before the storm?”

Mycroft smiled. “How very apt.”

Greg grinned as he took a plate from him. “I just have this image of you as a kid reading and then Sherlock coming along and ripping the pages out because you weren’t paying attention to him.”

“Remarkably accurate,” Mycroft admitted, pulling the plug out and drying his hands. He watched as Greg took the wine back to the living room. He frowned as his phone rang. He sighed. “Greg, will you choose a film while I answer this?” he called out.

“Usual place?”

“Yes.” Mycroft answered the call. “This better be important,” he muttered. It wasn’t. Just someone in his office, typing up reports, asking what their missions should be called. He really needed to have his phone number deleted from their phones…

He shook his head in disbelief as he hung up and walked back into the living room. “I’m finished,” Mycroft declared. “I’m running away to Spain and buying a shack by the sea. I can’t cope with this incompetence day after day. Apparently we can’t sign off the paperwork unless we name every single operation and task that goes through my office.”

Greg laughed. “You alright there?”

Mycroft took a deep breath. “I’m calm. I am a vision of serenity.”

Greg raised his eyebrows. “Uh huh.”

Mycroft wandered to the settee. “Or I will be when I have that wine. What film did you choose?”

“All The President’s Men.”

“Ah, Nixon. I’m looking forward to this one.”

Mycroft sat down as Greg pressed play on the DVD. “Comfy enough?” Greg asked.

“Fine, thank you.” Mycroft glanced over at him. “Come on.”

“What?” Greg asked, frowning.

Mycroft looked pointedly at his legs and then at Greg’s face. A smile spread over Greg’s face as he swung his legs up, resting them in Mycroft’s lap. Mycroft put his hand down on Greg’s knee.

Part of him kicked himself for it. But he couldn’t help it. When he and Greg sat like this, a feeling of utter rightness came over him. He pushed away the thoughts about his work and Moriarty and worries about Sherlock. All that mattered was that he could sit there with Greg. With the man he loved. With the man he could imagine going home to.

He hardly watched the film. He just allowed his mind to drift, watching Greg out of the corner of his eye as Greg smiled and laughed and frowned in the appropriate places. He answered Greg’s few brief questions on the Watergate Scandal, where Richard Nixon had been complicit in bugging his politician opponents’ offices - and the subsequent cover-up.

Where there were men in power, there was always room for corruption. Mycroft knew he’d seen it first-hand. He knew in some ways, he had played a form of political chess with his own allies and enemies. He had manoeuvred them into the right places at the right times to give those who worked with him some sort of leg up.

And those who worked against him… He had secrets on them all. Even more since the Adler revelations. He had enough information to topple the Government. To topple household names. To destroy them.

But all of it was just information to hold on to, until such a time that he needed it.

He glanced at Greg, who was topping up his wine glass, his lips parted as he watched the screen. He looked down at his hand on Greg’s knee, his thumb rubbing against the soft fabric of his trousers.

And Greg was so good. He offered his heart to everyone. Even just sitting so close to him was more than Mycroft deserved.

And he couldn’t let it go, even knowing all that. Greg didn’t make him a better man, but it made him feel like one. It erased the failures and the wrongs of his past. He felt like it gave him a reason to try to do better.

Because he could be, he thought. If circumstances allowed… he could be so much better.

“Reckon it’s past your bedtime,” Greg said, pulling Mycroft from his thoughts. Greg stood up, stretching his arms above his head, revealing just a line of skin across his stomach. God, he was temptation personified.

Mycroft smiled up at him. “I agree. I enjoyed that though.”

“Me too.” Greg looked at his watch. “Yeah, well, should definitely head back anyway. Cheers for a great night."

“Don’t forget your books.”

“Good point.” Greg took them from the table and put them into a plastic bag.

“I’ll walk you to the door,” Mycroft said, standing up and rolling his own shoulders. He followed Greg to the door.

Greg turned to Mycroft. “Right then,” Greg said. “Thanks for dinner.”

“You’re welcome.”

They shook hands, eyes meeting, smiles present on their faces. The grip of Greg’s hand tightened, just a fraction. Greg’s pupils dilated. He took a step closer. Mycroft swallowed. His heart sped up. He wanted it so much.

He could be better, he thought. He could be a better man, just for having Greg there to balance him.

He wanted it. Craved it. He’d never wanted anything more than he wanted to be with Greg. To go home and find him there, stretched out on the settee. To see him lift his arms above his head and for Mycroft to be able to kiss that line of skin across his stomach.

Greg lifted his left hand, and his thumb stroked Mycroft’s cheekbone. Frozen, Mycroft closed his eyes.

He had dreamed of this for so long, and he felt as though he was imagining it all. How could Greg ever want this too? How, after everything Mycroft had ever done to him, could this still be what he wanted?

Greg cupped Mycroft’s cheek. Mycroft opened his eyes and stared at him. He wasn’t in control of his own actions anymore. Because a part of him still knew they shouldn’t do this. A part of him - a big part of him - remembered Greg being shunted into the Thames as though it was yesterday. He remembered a gunman, his weapon pointed at Greg. It had all been Mycroft’s fault. How could Mycroft ever put him in that danger again?

And yet.

They were drawn closer to one another. Their lips were barely apart.

Mycroft felt the vibration in his pocket before his phone let out the first ring. He stepped away from Greg as though he’d been electrocuted, grabbing his phone and answering the call.

“You’ll never guess,” Anthea said. “They picked him up. Jim Moriarty.”

“You found him. Where?”

“He was hovering outside of Westminster.”

“I am on my way. Immediately.” Mycroft hung his phone up. He paused for a second, stunned. And then he looked up at Greg. And there it was. They had Moriarty. And Greg… This had to end. “Greg. I… I have to go.”

Greg nodded. “Course. Yeah.”

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine. It’s work. I know it is.” Greg smiled, but it was forced. He left without another word, shutting the door quickly behind him.

Mycroft pinched his eyes closed before going to his bathroom and splashing water on his face. He changed his tie, hooked his umbrella over his arm and jogged down the stairs and into the car.

He glanced at Jim Braum, who had a gun on his lap. “He was just strollin’ around like it was the middle of July, calm as you like,” Jim said. “And then obviously we moved in and he just… smirked and held his hands up in the air. And we took him. No fuss at all. No gunmen anywhere. And we just put him a car.”

“And where is he now?” Mycroft asked.

“We followed the plan exactly like you said, boss. He’s at Gatwick Airport now.”

Mycroft nodded and checked the time. “We will need to fly him from there to Glasgow International Airport. From there, you will take a flight to Poland, where we have access to a CIA black site.”

Jim frowned. “Black site?” he asked.

“Yes. The CIA offered MI6 access to them several years ago. I never thought I’d have reason to use one. But I need to know Moriarty’s plan.”

Jim shrugged. “Sorry. I don’t know the terminology.”

“It’s a site for interrogating terrorists,” Mycroft explained.

“And by interrogating… y’mean…”

Mycroft glanced at him and raised one eyebrow. Jim shrugged and nodded in understanding, not saying another word.

They reached the airport, to where a small aeroplane was waiting was take Moriarty to Poland. Mycroft strolled along the tarmac, shaking hands with his employee Edward Palfrey. “Good job today,” he said. He turned to his head to where two MI6 agents marched Jim Moriarty along the tarmac towards the aeroplane. He was handcuffed, a blindfold across his eyes. But he looked calm, whistling, in fact, as he went. Mycroft pressed his lips together, watching as he was led into the aeroplane.

He turned to Edward and beckoned Jim Braum over. “I trust you both know what I am asking of you.”

They both nodded. “It’s all in good hands,” Jim said.

“I know,” Mycroft replied. “But if you need to back out… now is your one chance.”

“Just leave it to us, Mr Holmes,” Edward said. “We both understand what this means.”

Mycroft glanced at him. He knew Edward Palfrey’s record. He had been about to lose his job with MI6 when Mycroft had hired him. He had a reputation for being too forceful with those he needed to extract information from. But it meant he was the best - and the only - man for this job.

“Jim, I need you to observe everything,” Mycroft instructed. “Please set up a camera so I can keep an eye on proceedings. Everything you need should be at the site already.” Mycroft frowned. “But I will not allow you to use waterboarding as a tactic.”

Edward blinked. “Really? The CIA reckons it makes people talk in minutes.”

Mycroft shook his head. “Consider this to be the last word I have to say on the matter.”

“I guess you want to make sure we don’t leave a mark on him?” Edward asked.

“All torture leaves its mark,” Mycroft murmured. “But let’s not leave him with anything worse than a bruise. I’m trusting you both. Don’t make me regret it.” He turned away and slipped back into the car, telling Max to drive him back to Crusader House.

He checked in with Arnou after that. “The extraction will go ahead in two days,” he informed him. “Are you ready to go ahead?”

“We were just waiting for your order,” Arnou told him.

Mycroft nodded. “Very good. Two days.”

He visited Baker Street the next day. He found Sherlock flicking furiously through a book from where he lay on the settee. Mycroft raised an eyebrow at him.

“What do you want?” Sherlock grumbled, not looking up at him.

“To see how you were coping.”

“Coping?”

“Irene Adler is due to turn up dead any month now. I thought you might be… moping.”

Sherlock snorted but and lifted his book so it covered his face. Mycroft slid his phone from his pocket. He frowned at the screen, as though he had received a message. “Just a moment,” he said, putting his papers down on the table.

He walked out of the room and scrolled through his messages for a while, listening to Sherlock’s footsteps. A few minutes later, he returned, finding the paperwork moved slightly to the right.

He collected it up. “Well, if you have nothing to say…” He shrugged one shoulder and left Sherlock to it, satisfied that everything was going as planned.

Catching Moriarty had been a bonus. But the important part was yet to come.

* * *

 

**Location: Karachi, Pakistan.**

Of course he knew the moment Sherlock went to an airport to get a flight to Pakistan. Mycroft was already in Karachi, sipping a bottle of water as he turned on his laptop. Anthea sat across from him, filling him in everything happening in London.

Mycroft checked the time. “The execution is planned to take place any minute now. Any news on Sherlock?”

“Arnou says he doesn't suspect a thing,” Anthea told him.

Mycroft rolled his eyes. “I used to think my brother was an idiot,” he said. “As he got older, I realised he was more intelligent than the other children his age. And my age, in fact. Nonetheless, he does rather… ignore some very salient details.”

Anthea spun her laptop around. “One of Arnou’s informants is filming everything.”

Mycroft sat back in his chair. He watched the woman in the headscarf, Irene Adler, as she knelt down in the sand. He recognised Sherlock in an instant, holding the sword, as if to cut off her head.

“He always drops his shoulder before he gets into position,” Mycroft murmured. “Ever since he began fencing, he always drops it. It’s… unmistakable.”

There was no sound to the video, but he found he didn’t need it. He watched as Sherlock removed his hood and swung the sword, ready to sink it into a man’s guts. But Cliff was faster. He jammed the taser into Sherlock’s back, and Sherlock dropped to the floor. Another man, Mycroft was certain it was Arnou, grabbed Irene and cuffed her.

The video went black.

“And there we have it,” Mycroft replied, satisfied. He had some food while he waited for Irene and Sherlock to be driven to the hotel. He turned around at a knock on the door, as Cliff confirmed everything was in place.

“Would you like me to join you, sir?” Anthea asked.

“No. I think you and Arnou have some making up to do.” He rose from his chair and walked across the corridor to the suite Sherlock had been taken to.

“Who are you?” he could hear Sherlock demanding. “I can work it out. You’re married. French and. Iranian.”

“Is that it?” Arnou asked.

“I’m hardly getting started," Sherlock snapped. 

Mycroft smiled, amused, and stepped into the room. “Give it up, Sherlock,” he said.

Sherlock spun his head round. “You?” he muttered, frowning.

“This is Arnou Fortier,” Mycroft said. “Anthea’s husband.”

Sherlock stared at him. “You planned this.”

“Of course I planned this,” Mycroft replied with an amused smile. “I knew you would go after her. You are startlingly predictable.”

“Where is she?”

Mycroft turned around as the door opened again, and Cliff led Irene Alder in. “Well, this is a turn up for the books,” she said, a half smile on her mouth. She looked exhausted. But Mycroft supposed thinking you were about to be beheaded would do that to a person.

“Would you like a drink, Miss Adler?” he asked.

“I wouldn’t say no to some tea,” she replied.

“Please,” Mycroft told her. “Do have a seat.”

She nodded and sat down on one of the chairs. Sherlock spun around and marched over to the window, his arms folded as he stared out of it, silently fuming.

Cliff poured them all some tea. “Arnou. Cliff. Leave us,” Mycroft said, taking a seat. He waited until the door closed.

“How long?” Sherlock demanded, turning to him.

“How long what?” Mycroft repeated.

“How long have you been planning this?”

“Ever since you unlocked Miss Adler’s phone.”

“You had her followed. And then you… you set up a fake execution.”

Mycroft smiled and nodded. “Yes. I must admit, I wasn’t expecting it to be quite so easy. And now here we all are again. On my terms. Where neither of you is in a position to single-handedly destroy the United Kingdom.”

Irene smiled at him, amused. “Come on, Sherlock. You must admit. It has all rather… come full circle.”

Sherlock glared at Mycroft, slumping down onto a chair. “You left those notes on my table on purpose.”

Mycroft nodded. “I did. And you acted exactly as I predicted.”

“If you think this means you’ve won-”

“-Why waste breath on debating who won and who lost?” Mycroft asked him.

“Why else did you do this? Did you think I… _cared_ about her?”

“Do you really think I would save Irene Adler’s life to make you _feel_ better?” Mycroft asked, raising his eyebrows. “You know I am not a man with that sort of compassion.”

Irene sipped her tea. “You saved my life for a reason though.”

“Yes, of course,” Mycroft agreed, turning his attention to her. “Purely selfish reasons, I’m afraid.”

“Then what happens now?” she asked.

“For all intents and purposes, Irene Adler died today,” Mycroft told them both. “Sherlock did not run in and save the day. My men were not present. She died. Beheaded. This conversation never happened. In reality, I provide everything necessary to prove to those who are after you that you died. I’ve faked someone’s death before, with success.”

“How do you know how to get the message out?” Irene asked.

“I’ve been tracking those who have been following you. My men have killed some of them. It took me just two hours to plan this, Sherlock. And you never even realised. You never see the bigger picture. But here it is. And I hope you are both paying attention, because this is all that matters. Killing Moriarty doesn’t end the game. There is an entire network to take out. There wasn’t a lot on your camera phone, Miss Alder. Not enough to satisfy me about Moriarty. So now you need to tell me about him. And you really must tell me everything. I will know if you lie.”

She frowned. “And what happens when I tell you?”

“I fake your death for you, as promised. And then I’m sending you to South America. From what I understand, no one on that continent has reason to want you dead. And you will carry out work for me, from there. I will pay you enough so you can have a comfortable life. It will be up to you, what you do with it.”

She nodded. “I always liked the warm weather,” she replied. “And beaches.”

“Mm. But now I need your side of the deal.”

“What do you need to know?”

“How did you come across Jim Moriarty?”

She leaned forward, putting her cup and saucer down on the table before leaning back in her chair, crossing one leg over the other. “A man. A soldier. I think he was a soldier, once. He came to me for my… services. He went by the name Sebastian Moran. Obviously, I tried to… pump him for information, just as I work over every man and woman who pays for my services. He didn’t respond like the others.”

“In what way?” Sherlock asked.

Irene pursed her lips, threading her hands together in her lap. “He liked to be dominated. Controlled. But he was never able to completely let go. One day he… He told me he knew my secrets. He rattled off a long list of my clients, the things he knew they had done, and the things he suspected they had told me. I thought he was planning to have the police arrest me. I don’t know.”

Mycroft frowned. “Arrest you on what grounds?”

“I don’t know. Moran was… he was the only person I’ve never felt I could manipulate. He’s… unhinged. Terrifying, in truth. He told me he knew someone who could do marvellous things with my secrets. He said his name was Moriarty. A consulting criminal. And then Moriarty told me how to play you both.”

“And Moran?”

“I never saw him again,” Irene said. “I don’t know whether he came to me because he wanted to experience my services… or because he saw an opportunity. Another job for Moriarty. Either way, the outcome is the same.”

“But Moriarty is Moran’s employer?”

Irene frowned for a moment. “Moriarty has men and women all over Europe, I think. They do his dirty work. They are the public faces of his operation. But he works alone, really. I always thought Moran was rather in awe of him. In awe of his genius. But Jim Moriarty… he thinks everyone is beneath him. He just likes causing trouble.”

“Why me?” Sherlock asked.

“Well, I don’t know the full story,” Irene said. “I don’t know how he came across you or why. I think… he believes you’re alike. He thinks you’re almost as clever as he is... and he finds you amusing. Every villain needs a hero to compete with.”

“Hero?” Sherlock snorted.

“He thinks you’re weak. He thinks he knows the way into your heart. The doctor, the landlady, the police officer…” Irene frowned, her eyes meeting Mycroft’s. “But not you. He told me a story about you. He told me you disappointed him once. He had thought you were despicable. Abhorrent. And he admired it. He thought you were… utterly wonderful.”

Sherlock snorted. “Wonderful?” he muttered, disdainfully.

“Then he thought you were weak,” Irene continued, still watching Mycroft. She smiled. “Falling in love with a police officer. How mundane, he thought. How painfully predictable. Only, it became clear you didn’t fall in love with him. You used him for sex. Well, no one can blame you, we all have carnal needs. But you brushed the policeman off like he was a speck of dust on your coat. Moriarty says you keep him around because he’s useful, and you use him to get what you want. Someone to look after your little brother. You don’t feel anything, he says, and that makes you boring. You’re a machine, and machines are predictable.”

“The Ice Man,” Mycroft murmured.

“Yes. But Sherlock…” She turned to look at Sherlock. “Now, you, he is interested in. He thinks you’re on the side of the angels. Your brother, well, he’s had men killed in cold blood, we all know that.” She turned in her seat, frowning across at Mycroft. “You’re not good, Mycroft. Jim thinks you’re on his side. Indirectly.”

“What does he want?” Mycroft asked.

“He wants Sherlock to… lose everything. He wants Sherlock to… feel pain. He wants him to be the hero he knows deep down Sherlock has always wanted to be. And then to lose it all.”

“I don’t want to be a hero,” Sherlock muttered. 

“You like puzzles and games, just like Jim Moriarty. But there you both were, as children. And he commits a crime and you… solve it.”

“Carl Powers,” Mycroft murmured. “Is that how long he’s been following Sherlock?”

Irene shook her head. “I don’t think so. Moriarty’s real success has come in the past six years. But I’m afraid I don’t know for certain.”

“Moriarty’s network. I have reason to think it extends throughout Europe. Am I right?”

Irene nodded. “From the whispers I’ve heard, yes. Yes, you’re right. But Moran is the only one I’ve met. I’ve spoken to Moriarty on the phone, but I have no idea what he looks like.”

“Do you know his plan for Sherlock?” Mycroft asked her.

“No. But I’d keep an eye out for John Watson, the landlady and the policeman. He saw how Sherlock reacted when Mrs Hudson was attacked, throwing her assailant through a window. He knows about the policeman, because he knows he has spent time at Sherlock’s bedside when he’s taken drugs. He knows he matters.”

“My heart,” Sherlock muttered, rolling his eyes. “He said he’ll burn the heart out of me.”

Irene nodded. “It’s your weakness,” she said. “And he’ll use it to… Well, if I knew, I’d tell you. But I don’t.”

Mycroft frowned. “Very well,” he said, standing up. “Miss Adler, please find a use for this room. Sherlock. With me.”

Sherlock frowned but stood up too, following Mycroft out into the corridor and into the other room.

“I have Moriarty,” Mycroft told him, closing the door. “At a black site in Poland.”

Sherlock raised his eyebrows. “He let you catch him.”

“I know.”

“What does he want?”

“So far he hasn’t spoken a word. They will break him eventually.” Mycroft frowned. “You’re not going to like what I’m about to suggest.”

“Say it anyway.”

“He wants to destroy you. He is going to start with the people you care about. And he is going to want to pull your reputation apart. You have a… media presence, Sherlock, but you don’t exactly have a reputation at present.”

“What do I need to do?”

“Solve high-profile cases. Take as many as you can. And get in the newspapers. Don’t give interviews, but make sure everyone in the country knows the name Sherlock Holmes.”

“Give him something worth destroying.”

Mycroft nodded. “Yes.”

“He’ll target you,” Sherlock said. “He’s ignoring you so far, but if you keep protecting me… He’ll go after you.”

“Leave that to me.”

Sherlock frowned and nodded. “What are you going to tell John?”

“About what?”

“Irene Adler.”

“I’ll tell him she’s dead. And I’ll tell him you don’t know. That you think she is in a witness protection programme. We can’t afford any leaks.”

Sherlock snorted and rolled his eyes. “Don’t think you’ve won,” he said.

Mycroft managed a half smile. “Sherlock, assuming we both survive this… I won’t ever again mention the time a dominatrix beat you.” His smile widened, pleased at how everything had come together. “And then how I beat you both.”

* * *

**Location: Mexico City, Mexico.**

He joined Irene in Mexico. She had a small apartment on the fourth floor in the capital city. He had her weaving her charm on the Mexican politicians as he tried to work out a deal which would crack down on drug trafficking between their countries.

“That was fun!” she exclaimed as she opened the door to her apartment. Mycroft closed the door behind them.

“I don’t think they even knew what they were signing,” Mycroft said.

She smiled at him. “No,” she replied. “But this is where our lives diverge, isn’t it?”

Mycroft nodded. “I’m pleased to see you are settling in. But this really was just a brief visit to ensure you… can start a new life.”

“I’ll keep causing trouble.”

“I don't doubt it. I hope when I remove Moriarty from the equation that I may be able to get you more involved.” Mycroft paused. “Although… I hope you know I don’t trust you for a second.”

She nodded. “Likewise,” she replied.

Mycroft held his hand out and she shook it. He frowned for a second. “Something has been bothering me,” he said carefully. “In Pakistan… you said I had a man killed in cold blood. You said… ‘we all know that’. What were you referring to?” She laughed and strolled to the kitchen. Mycroft followed her, standing in the doorway. “Miss Adler,” he muttered.

She pulled a bottle of water from the fridge and had a sip before turning to face him. “The Commander at the Metropolitan Police was one of my clients, you know.”

Mycroft frowned. “He’s engaged to Marie Tunstall. Or do you mean prior to that?”

“Oh, they both used my services. Together. And separately. Interesting man, that Commander. So ambitious. But not entirely suited to the job, I found.” Irene pushed her hair back from her face. “He questioned all his choices. He would sit afterwards, some of my clients like that. Sitting and talking. He used to tell me that he never thought he was up to the job. It made me wonder. What favours did he do to get the position in the first place?” She held Mycroft’s eyes. “I was quite taken aback when I discovered the truth.”

“I’m sure he was the best man for the job,” Mycroft replied, suddenly tense. 

“No, he wasn’t.” Irene’s smile dropped, and in an instant, Mycroft knew what she knew. “But you ensured he got it, didn’t you?” Mycroft’s mouth went dry. She took a few steps towards him. And though she had kicked off her heels and was shorter than him, Mycroft felt as though he was the small one. “Sherlock doesn’t know what happened, does he?” she asked, her voice low. “He suspects. But he doesn’t know.”

Mycroft clenched his teeth. “Goodbye, Miss Adler,” he said tightly, turning around.

“Goodbye, Mycroft Holmes,” she said to his back. “Don’t be a stranger.”

He closed the door quietly behind him. He walked down the stairs, slowly, deliberately, her words pounding in his head.

She knew. She knew what had happened. And for six years, he had done so well to bury it. He dropped his head into his hands. And as he pondered the problem, he could only assume one thing: Moriarty knew too.


	52. Trade Agreements

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Publishes this chapter*
> 
> *Hides face in fear and trepidation* 
> 
> Oh god, please don't hate this. Eeek. Scared.

**March 2011.**

**Location: Speedy’s, Baker Street, London.**

Mycroft met John Watson at Speedy’s in the rain. He staged it all. A cigarette in hand so it appeared he was in some way distressed. The non-threatening surroundings of Speedy’s so John Watson felt at ease. As they sat down, he showed him the files on Irene Adler.

“Closed forever,” Mycroft informed him. “I am about to go and inform my brother, or, if you prefer, you are, that she somehow got herself into a witness protection scheme in America. New name, new identity. She will survive – and thrive – but he will never see her again.”

“He’ll be okay with this witness protection, never seeing her again,” John replied. “He’ll be fine.”

“I agree. That’s why I decided to tell him that.”

“Instead of what?”

“She’s dead. She was captured by a terrorist cell in Karachi two months ago and beheaded.”

“It’s definitely her?” John asked. “She’s done this before.”

“I was thorough this time. It would take Sherlock Holmes to fool me, and I don’t think he was on hand, do you?” Mycroft slid the files to John. “So… What should we tell Sherlock?”

“Well, I’d… ordinarily I’d suggest the truth,” John said. Mycroft sat back in his chair, watching him with interest. “I mean he… he doesn’t feel things. Not like…”

“Like normal people?”

“He cares about the work. And puzzles.”

“Is it as simple as that?”

“You tell me,” John said.

Mycroft raised his eyebrows. “It’s better coming from you.” Mycroft stood up and collected his umbrella. “I’ll need those papers back when Sherlock’s done with them.” He walked back out to the car. A little while later, he received a text from Sherlock.

 

MESSAGES Sherlock Holmes  
3.12pm: As predicted. John chose  
to lie. He’s atrocious at it.  
Keep him out of all future schemes.  
SH

 

Mycroft didn’t reply, but slid his phone into his pocket. He contacted Jim Braum when he got back into the office, after reviewing the Moriarty interrogations from the previous day.

“He’s still not talking,” Jim told him. “Doesn’t even open his mouth, just… just sort of stares into the darkness.”

“How long has it been?”

“Twenty-three days, boss. I mean, he eats, he sleeps when we let him, he shits… And that’s it. Won’t say a word.”

“I assume you’ve been using sleep deprivation?”

“Yep. Edward knocks him about a bit. Then I go in and try the softly-softly approach. Sometimes we switch it up. But he won’t bite.”

Mycroft frowned. “Keep going. We can’t hold him there forever. Give it a few more days and then I’ll… intervene.”

“There’s one more thing,” Jim said.

“What?”

“You probably can’t see it on the video, but he’s begun writing Sherlock’s name around his cell.”

“Thank you, Jim,” Mycroft replied, hanging up the phone call.

* * *

A few days came and went. Moriarty still hadn’t said a word. And John was texting Mycroft, warning him that Sherlock was desperate for cigarettes. Mycroft had seen it himself of course, when his brother visited him at the Coeur de Lion Offices, leaning on the desk as he observed some of Moriarty’s interrogations for himself.

“Are those… so-called interrogators really the best you’ve got?” Sherlock asked disdainfully after a few minutes. 

“Well, what else do you suggest?”

Sherlock frowned and sat down. “I’ll think it over,” he muttered, pulling his phone out of his pocket. He glared at it and slammed it down on the desk.

“Problem?” Mycroft asked.

“Cases have dried up since you’ve taken Moriarty off the streets. I’ve got nothing to do.”

“Well you could look at-”

“-I’m not interested in what you have to offer,” Sherlock snapped at him.

“I have the last known location of Interpol’s most wanted, Peter Ricoletti. I’m sure you could get into the newspapers if you were to assist in capturing him.”

Sherlock hesitated for a second. “No,” he said. “It’s not good enough.” He stood up and shook his head. “Keep me updated with your progress.”

Mycroft stood up. “Of course. But remember what I said, Sherlock. You need to raise your profile. Take some of New Scotland Yard’s cases.”

“They’re not the sort to give me any publicity,” Sherlock told him. He slid his coat back on. “I’ll sort it,” he said.

* * *

And ‘sort it’ he certainly did. Mycroft was at the Diogenes Club when he received a text from Anthea to tell him his card had been used at Baskerville. Mycroft pulled an exasperated expression. He text Sherlock.

 

MESSAGES:  
1.12pm: What are you doing? M

 

MESSAGES:  
1.15pm: What’s going on Sherlock? M

 

After five minutes with no response, he wandered out of the club. It was typical of Sherlock to be causing trouble on the first day he had been able to sit and just think in weeks. But then he never did have any concern for anyone else’s plans…

He groaned and called Anthea. “Get him out of there immediately,” he muttered. “For goodness sake. He must have taken my card when he came round the other day. It’s not the only card missing. I’ll need a replacement driver’s licence.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Thank you.” Mycroft hung up and frowned. He gave Anthea a few moments ensure Sherlock was ejected from Baskerville before calling her again. “Would you call Greg Lestrade for me?” he asked. “Have him sent to Dartmoor to join Sherlock and presumably John Watson. I’ll take care of his work.” He hung up again. That should keep them out of trouble, he thought. Well. Hopefully.

He took the car to the office, trying to find out how Sherlock had spent 23 minutes in a top secret military facility before anyone realised there was a mistake.

He looked up from his computer when Anthea knocked on the door and walked in. “I’ve spoken to DI Lestrade,” she said. “His exact words were…” She looked at her notebook. “Unless the man himself shows up at my door with a bottle of his good whiskey and tells me exactly what’s up, I’m not moving.”

Mycroft let out an exasperated sigh. “I’m busy.”

“You know he’s a special case.”

Mycroft frowned and stood up. “Fine. I’ll be out for the rest of the day. I need a gun to give to him. Make sure it’s legal.” He wandered outside and to the car, telling Kamik to take him to Crusader House. He collected one of his best bottles of whiskey, before travelling back to the office to collect the weapon. Then he went to Greg’s flat.

He knocked on the door, tapping his foot impatiently. Greg opened it, his eyebrows raised. He rolled his eyes as he stepped to the side so Mycroft could walk in.

He was in the middle of doing his laundry. He was wearing a pair of shorts and a white t-shirt, and Mycroft could hear the whirring of his washing machine. He was tanned. And he had finally taken off his wedding ring.

“I’ve just got back from holiday,” Greg said.

“Yes, so I see.” Mycroft put the whiskey down. “It’s one trip, Greg. A few days, maximum.”

“Just cut to the chase then,” Greg muttered. “Want a cuppa?”

Mycroft paused. No more, he told himself. No more intimacy. “No,” he said. He frowned as Greg walked into the kitchen anyway. Agitated, Mycroft stood near the wall, inspecting the small book collection on Greg’s new bookcase.

He checked his pocketwatch. He had to be at the airport in two hours to go to Poland. That was more than enough time to negotiate with Greg and pack a suitcase. Nonetheless, he despised being made to wait. At least Moriarty wouldn’t be able to watch him now, he supposed. He wouldn't know he was in Greg's company. Mycroft flicked his eyes to Greg’s window. The flat was out of a sniper’s range, as far as he could tell.

Greg padded out of the kitchen, and handed Mycroft a mug of coffee he hadn't wanted. “Thank you,” he said anyway, taking a seat. Greg sat down opposite him, watching him with a curious expression. “I’m worried about Sherlock’s state of mind,” Mycroft told him.

“What’s wrong with him?”

“He’s waiting.”

“Waiting for what?” Greg asked.

“Moriarty’s next move. And Sherlock abhors waiting.”

“I know. So what will it be?”

“Moriarty’s next move? Impossible to say. Fortunately Sherlock has found a case, and one entirely unconnected to Moriarty. But it is in Baskerville, which of course, is under my jurisdiction and I don’t trust him to avoid a national scandal.”

Greg snorted. “Yeah. So, what can I do then?”

“Keep an eye on him. Observe how he is. And pay particular attention to him on the way home. If he is finding waiting as difficult as I expect…”

“Drugs.”

Mycroft nodded. “Indeed.”

Greg sighed. “Alright. But you know, John could take care of him.”

“John informed me he was desperate for cigarettes. And you have seen him through far worse than John has.”

“Great. Just great.”

Mycroft glanced around his flat. He had been away for a while. Mycroft’s surveillance had followed him to France as far as he was aware, which meant there was plenty of opportunity for someone to have got into his flat. Greg had been bugged before. Moriarty wasn’t above keeping an eye on people-

“Mycroft,” Greg prompted. “What’s wrong?”

Mycroft snapped his head back to him. “Wrong? Why would anything be wrong?”

“You don’t… you don’t seem yourself. What’s up?”

“Nothing.”

Greg frowned. “I know you well enough to know that’s not true. What’s going on?”

“Nothing is going on, I’m fine.”

“Mycroft…”

“Leave it alone!” Mycroft snapped.

Greg narrowed his eyes at him, shaking his head as he leaned back in the chair. “Fine. Fine. Forget I asked.”

“Thank you.”

Greg continued to stare at him, tapping his fingers against his leg. He was frustrated. Annoyed. And just a little concerned. His features softened the longer they looked at each other, and he leaned forward in his chair…

“Don’t,” Mycroft said, glancing at his bookcase. Would someone put a bugging device there? It seemed as good a place as any... He would drive himself mad, he thought. Constantly worrying about Greg, thinking he was going to be attacked any moment... 

Greg frowned at him. “Don’t want?”

Mycroft shook his head. “I know what you’re thinking, but don’t come over here.”

“I wasn’t going to,” Greg said, clearly lying as he touched his lip with his finger. “What does it matter if I was anyway?”

“What very nearly occurred at my flat quite frankly shouldn’t have done. It was a brief moment of foolishness on my part and a thought I shouldn’t have indulged in.”

“What because I nearly kissed you?”

“Let’s talk about Baskerville.”

“No, hang on," Greg pressed. Mycroft glared at him, until Greg sat back in his chair. “Fine,” Greg muttered. “Baskerville.”

“Sherlock stole my access card and is causing all sorts of problems in pursuit of a hound.”

“Hound?”

Mycroft sighed. “Let John explain it all when you arrive.” He leaned down to open his briefcase. He retrieved the gun.

Greg stared at him. “What the hell?”

Mycroft put it on the table between them. “I insist you take this.”

“No.”

“It’s all quite legal.”

“I’m not taking it. We’ve talked about guns before. You know I don’t like them.”

“Think of it not as a weapon but as insurance.”

“Insurance?” Greg snorted. “Oh come off it.”

“What if Sherlock were in danger? You would have nothing but your own strength to help him. You have always protected my brother, why not do so now?”

“Sherlock’s always in trouble.”

“I would prefer it if you returned from Devon unharmed. All three of you.”

“I probably don’t even remember how to use it.”

“Nonsense.” Mycroft picked the gun back up. He held it out to Greg.

Greg leaned forward. He wrapped his hand around Mycroft’s wrist, though not tightly. Mycroft clenched his jaw, tilting his head a little.

“I won’t use it to kill someone,” Greg said.

“Understood.”

“And this is a one-time thing. If you ever offer me a weapon again. Well, I don’t know what I’ll do, but it’s not going to be pleasant.”

“It’s for your own protection.”

“Like hell it is.” Greg let go of Mycroft’s wrist and took the gun from him, immediately putting it back down on the table. Mycroft glanced at it and then back up at Greg’s face. “This is about you not listening to me. I’ve told you what I think about guns, but oh no, Mycroft knows best.”

“I do know best.”

“Yeah. Course you do.”

Mycroft narrowed his eyes at him. “I’m not doing this to make a point.”

“You could send anyone to keep an eye on Sherlock.”

“And who would he work with?”

“I’m not there to work with him. He’s got John for that. You’re sending me there to keep an eye on him. Like a bloody child-minder.”

“There is no one I trust with my brother’s protection more than you,” Mycroft said. “And I am not talking about his life. I am talking about drugs. About his boredom. About waiting for Moriarty to make a move.”

“Then stop waiting for God’s sake. You have everything at your disposal. It would make Sherlock happy.”

“It’s not as simple as simply taking him out,” Mycroft muttered. “It’s a terrorist organisation, Greg. Someone will step into his shoes. And another. And another. We have to tread cautiously.”

“No. You actually have to tread at all. Look, I’m not privy to all the details and plans and projects and whatever the hell it is you’re responsible for. But this man has been making our lives hell for years. And he will keep doing it.”

“We will sort it out.”

“You better. Because I know where Sherlock’s coming from. I’m sick of waiting too. And Mycroft.” Mycroft frowned at him. “Look, Mycroft. I shouldn’t, but I do. I’m worried about you. And Sherlock. Mostly you. For all you’re going on about him returning to drugs and stuff, it’s nothing compared to what I think you’re returning to.”

Mycroft frowned. “And what exactly is that?”

“When was the last time you were actually happy?”

When they were together… “What’s that got to do with anything?”

“You and me need to talk, Mycroft.”

Mycroft's raised his eyebrows. “Is that not what we are doing now?”

“Oh ha, bloody ha,” Greg muttered. “Come on. I’m talking about us.”

Us? No. No, no, they were not talking about the two of them. Not now. Not ever again. “We’re not having this conversation.” Mycroft stood up and closed his briefcase, picking up his umbrella.

“When you get rid of Moriarty, we’re going to talk, you and me,” Greg told him. “We’re going to have it out and sort this once and for all.”

Mycroft shook his head. “I don’t even know what you’re referring to,” he replied as he turned to the door.

Greg snorted. “What? Mycroft Holmes is oblivious?” Mycroft glanced at him. Greg sat there, eyes wide open, posture open. Cheeks slightly flushed. “You  _know_ , Mycroft,” Greg insisted, his voice softening. “I know you know.”

Mycroft pressed his lips together, feeling his chest tighten. What was he supposed to know? He knew Greg was attracted to him. He’d always known that. It had been… blatant. But this was more… this was more than attraction. The feelings between them had never gone away, and God, Greg just had to make it harder for him, didn’t he?

“Just go,” Greg said. “We’ll do this another time, when Moriarty’s done and sorted, we’re having a chat, you and me, over bottles of wine and posh steak. So, you’ve got a bit of time to work out if it’s a yes or a no.”

“Good luck at Baskerville,” Mycroft said instead.

Greg nodded. “Good luck with Moriarty.”

Mycroft studied him for a moment. He walked to the door and hesitated. He couldn’t leave it that way. He never could, not with Greg. “I’m sorry about the gun. I didn’t mean to offend you.”

“Cheers,” Greg said. “I actually appreciate you saying that.”

Mycroft nodded and left. He went home and packed his suitcase before getting an aeroplane to Poland. When he arrived, Anthea confirmed that Greg was on his way to Dartmoor. Mycroft asked her to check his flat for bugs.

Mercifully, it came up all-clear.

* * *

**Location: Outside Lublin, Poland.**

The CIA black site building hadn’t changed since the last time Mycroft saw it. It was surrounded by high walls and barbed wire, heavily protected. Mycroft joined Jim Braum in the main observation room, on the other side of a one-way mirror.

He took a seat, observing as Edward slapped Moriarty, trying to make him talk. “No luck?” Mycroft asked.

“Nope,” Jim said.

Mycroft sighed. He spent the afternoon reviewing the footage before going in himself. Moriarty remained motionless. His dead expression didn’t change as Mycroft entered the room and took a seat opposite him.

And then they just stared at one another. Mycroft raised his eyebrows. Moriarty raised his back. Mycroft narrowed his eyes. Moriarty did just the same. It was childish. Pathetic.

Mycroft calmly left the room. He lay in bed that night, trying to wrench thoughts of Greg from his mind. Trying to find a way to get under Moriarty’s skin. Threats didn’t work. He clearly wasn’t afraid of death or pain. And he had nothing to lose.

Sherlock called him from Dartmoor the next day, in an unusually pleasant tone. “Hello, brother dear. How are you?”

“What do you want?” Mycroft asked.

“A trade.”

Mycroft groaned. “This rarely goes well for anyone. Especially me.”

“It’s a good trade.” Mycroft waited while Sherlock covered the mouthpiece, though he could still hear him speak. “John, go away.” Mycroft frowned, listening as John muttered a few things to Sherlock. Finally Sherlock spoke. “I need access to Baskerville.”

“I had hoped you find something more productive to do with your time than go hunting for some… story.”

“I was bored. Now I’m not bored. Everybody wins.”

“As ever, you put my job at risk.”

“Yeah, yeah, boring,” Sherlock replied. “So. Access?”

“I believe you mentioned a trade.”

“Moriarty.”

Mycroft paused. “What about him?”

“I know why he won’t talk.”

Mycroft frowned. “And why is that?”

“Because your conversations bore him. What’s your secret plan, how big is your network, how many assassins do you have, boring, boring, boring. It’s so mundane.”

“Then what do you suggest?”

“Nuh uh. Baskerville.”

Mycroft sighed. “Fine. I will give you three days unrestricted access. But please don’t… spill Smallpox on the furnishings.”

Sherlock chuckled. “That’s the least of your concerns.”

“Sherlock,” Mycroft warned. “I am not in the mood to play games.”

“Have you seen him?”

“Who?”

“Moriarty.”

“Yes.”

“And?”

“Not a word.”

Sherlock hummed. "Like I said. Boring questions.”

“Then what do you suggest?”

“Talk to him about me.”

Mycroft frowned. “I’m sorry?”

“Remember what our mutual friend said. She said Moriarty is interested in me. So talk to him about me. Perhaps he’ll… open up.”

Mycroft shook his head, though Sherlock couldn’t see. “Sherlock… I really don’t think…”

“No, you wouldn’t,” Sherlock replied, as though Mycroft was an idiot. “But if our assumptions are correct, Moriarty is keen to build me up into something special. I’ll solve the stupid Interpol case and get my name in the press. But he’ll aim to take me down in the same areas I’ve been successful.”

“Your friends. And in the media.”

“He’ll want to… discredit me somehow. So… He will surround a lie with the truth. It makes it easier to accept.”

“He’ll regard it as a… betrayal on my part.”

“Even better. You’d sell your own brother for Moriarty’s secrets. And it’s obvious to anyone with eyes and ears that I can’t stand you.”

Mycroft snorted. “Charming.”

“Nothing’s off limits.”

Mycroft frowned. “Nothing?”

“What’s the worst you can tell him?” Sherlock asked. “It’s not _me_ our family finds… repugnant.”

Mycroft chose to ignore that unsubtle dig. “The drugs.”

“Are boring,” Sherlock said. “I’m an addict, so what? So are half the supermodels the newspapers splash across their pages.”

“Redbeard.” There was a brief pause. “Sherlock?”

“Nothing’s off limits. Redbeard. My schooling. Our lack of it. Do what you have to do to make him talk. Just get me into Baskerville.”

“Very well,” Mycroft said. “It’ll be done in 10 minutes.”

“Cheers.”

Mycroft hung up the phone and rang Anthea to arrange everything. He stared in through the glass to where Moriarty was. It was a very… ridiculous idea, as far as he was concerned. He used the bathroom and checked his expression in the mirror. Stern. Cold. His suit was his armour. He was a man who didn’t care. Not about anything. Everything was calculated.

He opened the door to Moriarty’s cell. He took a few deliberate steps inside, glancing around at Sherlock’s name around the walls. “I notice you’ve made a few additions to the… decor,” Mycroft murmured, smiling coolly as he took a seat opposite Moriarty. “I’m so pleased to see you’ve made yourself at home.”

Moriarty just stared at him with black eyes. His face had turned gaunt, as he’d eaten less and less over the past few days. His eyes seemed darker, hollowed in. He sat as still as a statue, unblinking, top lip curved up into the beginnings of a sneer. Mycroft leaned back in his chair, resting his hands on his knees. “I want you to talk to me,” he said. “But you’ve been here for weeks now and… nothing’s worked. So I propose a trade.”

Moriarty frowned, just a little.

Mycroft nodded. “Yes. You see. I want to know about your network. I’m not interested in your… extra-curricular activities, making little games for my brother to play…” Moriarty’s expression flickered, just a little at that. “Yes. Sherlock Holmes. The subject fascinates you, doesn’t it?” Mycroft smiled. “And who knows him better than I do? I’m practically an encyclopaedia on Sherlock. If only you’d had the… opportunity to open the book up and read its contents. Well, here we are. I’ll tell you what you want to know… and you tell me what I want to know.”

Moriarty narrowed his eyes. Mycroft raised an eyebrow, waiting. He wouldn’t say another word. Not until Moriarty did. This was the battle now. A patient wait. The two kings on the chessboard, waiting in the wings, watching their pawns criss-cross along black and white squares.

A slow, sickening smile spread across Moriarty’s face. “Mycroft Holmes,” he said, his voice husky but not lacking an almost sing-song, childlike quality. “I never dreamt you’d be so… obliging.”

Mycroft didn’t move. He just watched his face, taking him in. The man made his skin crawl in ways few others ever had.

“You’re bluffing,” Moriarty finally declared, although he looked just a little doubtful.

Mycroft rose from his seat. “Fine,” he said. He walked out of the room, shaking his head. He stormed out of the building and frowned, clenching his fists at his sides. He was running out of options. He was going to have to let Moriarty go, without learning anything.

Greg called him that night while Mycroft was sat up in bed, weighing up his options. Mycroft stared down at his phone, listening to the ringing. Eventually, the call stopped. He hesitated. He didn’t want to speak to him. He didn’t want to feel anything. He didn’t want Moriarty to notice. And yet, and yet, his concern for Greg’s wellbeing overrode all that and he called him back.

“Lestrade,” Greg answered tiredly, a slight tremble to his voice.

Mycroft sat up straight. “What’s wrong?” he asked.

“It’s all sorted,” Greg told him. “Just wanted to let you know it’s sorted.”

“What was it?”

“Some sort of fog making people scared and stuff. There was a dog and John shot it and it’s dead now. I guess there’s a lot of stuff you’ll need to clear up and classified information or something. But it’s done. Our side of it’s over.”

“Thank you,” Mycroft replied. He could hear Greg’s breath shake, just a little. Heard him take a deep breath. Mycroft gripped the phone. “Greg, what happened?” he asked, as gently as he could manage.

“The fear drugs,” Greg said. “I didn’t just see the dog. I saw…” He trailed off. But Mycroft knew he was haunted by nightmares. Haunted by unsolved cases. Cases with child victims.

“I understand,” Mycroft murmured, and his heart broke for him a little. “Where are you now?”

“Back at the hotel.”

“Get into bed and close your eyes.”

“I’ll just put the phone on the side. One sec.”

Mycroft listened to Greg shuffling around. He slid under the covers of his own bed, lying down on his back and closing his eyes.

“Yeah. Done,” Greg finally announced.

“Good. Put the phone on loudspeaker.” Mycroft waited for a few moments, wracking his brain for something worth discussing. Something which could be construed as amusing, even if it wasn’t relaxing. “I was in Mexico a few weeks ago, and was told the most splendid story. I thought you’d like it.”

“Alright then.”

Mycroft smiled a little. “Back in the 1800s, a man named Antonio Lopez de Santa Anna was an army general in control of the Mexican army.”

“Mmm.”

“He went to war with the French at Veracruz, where he was hit in his leg by cannon fire. The leg had to be amputated. But after the war, he arranged to have the leg buried in a full state funeral, with all the honours that go with it.”

Greg laughed. “What? With a gun salute and stuff?”

Mycroft chuckled. “I can only imagine,” he said, suddenly wishing he had asked for details. If Greg had been with him, he would have asked, Mycroft supposed. And then they would have both had the answer. “But he was not one to sit and do nothing. He re-entered politics and used to wave his prosthetic leg above his head so people would remember the sacrifice he made to the country. He became president five times.”

“There you go then, Mycroft,” Greg said. “That’s a tip to pass onto a bloke you want to become Prime Minister.”

“Yes. I never gave that campaigning tool any thought before, but I will certainly suggest it. The prosthetic limb is at the Illinois Military Museum in America, having been taken by American troops during a war. Mexico has asked for it back several times.”

“What did you get up to in Mexico?”

“Meeting numerous delegates and attending meetings.”

“I’m sorry if I interrupted anything by calling,” Greg said, his voice suddenly a little regretful. “It was just… I dunno.”

“You don’t need to explain, believe me. And you didn’t interrupt anything I didn’t mind being distracted from.”

Greg sighed. “Gonna sleep,” he said tiredly. “Been a pretty long day.”

“Thank you for going.”

“Welcome. John said Sherlock was pleased to see me. Thought he was lying, but maybe. Maybe. Quite nice that, isn’t it? Sherlock might actually like me. Doesn’t know my bloody name though.”

Mycroft chuckled. “Of course, it’s only been six years.”

“Exactly. Bloody cheek of it.” Mycroft laughed softly again, cradling the phone to his ear, almost imagining Greg was lying there beside him. Oh, he wished... “Gonna sleep,” Greg said. “Good luck with your work and stuff.”

“Thank you. Have a pleasant sleep, and have a nice day tomorrow.”

“Yeah. Might wander around for a bit before heading back to London. Thanks for talking, Mycroft.”

“You’re very welcome.” Mycroft hung up the phone and let out a long breath. “I love you,” he whispered quietly, as though Greg could still hear him. Tomorrow would be another day. Another chance to work on Moriarty. He would think of something. He had to. For Greg’s sake if no one else’s.

* * *

“He’s refusing to eat,” Jim Braum informed him when he arrived at the black site the next morning. “Keeps asking for you.”

Mycroft frowned. “For me?”

Jim shrugged. “Maybe what you said yesterday had a bit of an impact.”

Mycroft nodded and squared his shoulders. He opened the door to the interrogation room. “I thought I was bluffing?”

Moriarty smirked at him. “I bet Sherlock always loved to play games as a boy.”

Mycroft nodded and took the seat opposite him. “Yes, I suppose… Yes.”

Moriarty rolled his eyes. “This isn’t a deal if you don’t give me something to play with.”

“Very well. Sherlock did enjoy games,” Mycroft told him. “He despised chess. Unusual, perhaps. You would think he would enjoy the mental challenge. He liked Mastermind. The game where your opponent picks four coloured pieces and puts them in an order of their choosing. It’s a secret sequence, which needs to be figured out. Sherlock liked trying to outwit whomever he was playing against.”

“You?”

Mycroft shook his head. “I was never really one for playing games. He played against my mother. How did you first stumble across my brother?”

Moriarty chuckled. “Really? That’s your question?”

Mycroft shrugged. “I’m curious.”

“I was given a job by the weapons manufacturer Rickard Luck. Sherlock came up in the course of my… research.”

Mycroft nodded. That was better, he thought. That meant Moriarty hadn’t been observing them since Carl Powers. It meant there were things he would not know.

“Has Sherlock always been so pathetically soft-centred?” Moriarty asked. “Like a Cadbury Creme Egg. Just crack him and he’s all… sugar.”

Mycroft smiled, and he ensured it didn’t look as fake as it felt. He pretended to be amused. To find Sherlock’s sentimentally rather disgusting. “He had a dog,” Mycroft told him. “His name was Churchill originally. But Sherlock got obsessed with pirates, and so Churchill became known as Redbeard. Redbeard was… his best friend. His only friend. Not for a lack of trying on his part.”

Moriarty smirked. “Oh go on.”

“He was always needy for friendship. He pretended he was above it all, of course. He despised me. It was entirely mutual, I’m afraid. Unfortunately for Sherlock, when he first attended school at seven-years-old, the other boys also took a disliking to him. They found him… abrasive. Foul-tempered.” Mycroft paused for a long moment. “What’s the ambition?”

“Ambition?”

“You’ve built what I can only describe as an intricate web of criminality. Why?”

Moriarty shrugged. “You’ve built an intricate web of surveillance. Why? Because we can. Because no one else is capable of it. Because no one else has the vision to do it.”

“But what do you hope to achieve from it?”

Moriarty smiled. “Well, that would be telling you the answer to the final puzzle, wouldn’t it? And no one should read the final page of the novel before they get through its pages. Why are you so… eager to donate your brother’s secrets to me?”

“Eager?” Mycroft echoed. He smiled and shook his head. “The only reason I keep him around is because of our parents. I find it keeps them off my back if they have Sherlock to deal with. And he does so often disappoint.”

“The drugs?” Moriarty asked.

Mycroft nodded. “Yes. You have no idea what it’s like to take a phone call and hear your brother is in hospital. Again. Overdosed. Again. And rather wishing that rather than hovering about in some sort of no-man’s land he would just… die. And let you all get on with your lives.”

Moriarty smiled, slow and understanding. “He’s a drama queen. Wouldn’t it be so lovely to see him… just… Fall from a great height?”

Mycroft raised an eyebrow. “Do you need anything more from me?” he asked.

“No, I should think that’s enough to be getting along with.”

“Your network in Europe. What is it doing”

“Committing crimes, mostly. Blackmail, corruption, frauds, the occasional bombing, all on behalf of my clients.” Moriarty licked his lips. “I’ll keep my operation out of London, how’s that? Why don’t you have a go at being the puppet-master? You could do it all. Cause the chaos and clean it up after yourself. See what it’s like in my world.”

Mycroft slowly rose from his chair. “Fine. If we are discussing territory, then London is my jurisdiction.”

Moriarty grinned up at him. “Consider it done,” he said. Mycroft turned and wandered to the door. “I met your brother you know,” Moriarty said to his back.

“I’m aware,” Mycroft replied, turning the handle.

"No, not Sherlock. The other one."

Mycroft's blood ran cold. He pulled the door open. He stepped through it and closed it quietly behind him. He felt the colour drain from his face. His heart began to race. No. He couldn’t possibly have. Could he? But if Moriarty had been hired by Rickard Luck in 2003… and Hadrian Kirkcudbright was killed in 2003… Then yes. Yes, it was feasible. But… No. God.

He walked through to the room on the other side of the mirror. He stared into Moriarty’s cell, where the man had a self-satisfied smile on his face, staring back at the mirror, clearly knowing he was being watched.

“Sir?” Jim asked.

Mycroft just shook his head. “Alright,” he said, swallowing. “Let him go.”

* * *

**July 1983.**

**Location: Oak Manor, Oxfordshire.**

_There was nothing but the words on the page. He felt so at peace, just turning the pages in his novel, absorbing the words, feeling lost in the make-believe world of ghosts and shadowed figures._

_His head snapped up at the sound of a shout. He frowned, shook his head and returned to his book. He was sat under the arbour at the very bottom of the garden. It smelt faintly of rosemary and honeysuckle. The birds were whistling overhead. But it was still. And he couldn’t have felt happier than at that moment._

_Except for the screech of laughter. Mycroft lifted his head and glared at where the sound came from. Sherlock seemed to lack of ability to be anything but loud._

_“Mycroft!” his older brother Sherrinford called from the garden._

_Exasperated, Mycroft snapped his book shut. He walked down the path, out to the large grassy area where Sherlock was bouncing a ball. “Come and play,” Sherrinford offered. “We’re short of a player.”_

_Mycroft hesitated for a moment. “What is it?” he asked._

_“Piggy in the middle!” Sherlock exclaimed with a cackle of laughter. He pointed at Mycroft. “Piggy!”_

_Mycroft clenched his teeth, swallowing back his rage. He turned on his heel and stomped back to the arbour, trying to drown out the sound of his two brothers laughing behind his back._

_He should have known better than to have trusted them, he thought. Angry, he found he couldn't even enjoy his book for the rest of the day._


	53. Trials

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To everyone who commented - I adore you all. It was so darned helpful because it was such a big plot direction change and I got nervous. But... thank you all!

**October 1984.**

**Location: Oak Manor, Oxfordshire.**

_A floorboard creaked. Mycroft flicked off the torch. He paused, listening out for another sound. Nothing. Content no one was out of bed, he switched the light back on, carefully turning another page in The Dinosaur Encyclopedia. He shuffled the covers around, balancing the book against the pillow._

_It wasn’t that he wasn’t allowed to be reading so late, per se. But he knew his parents would tell him to get some sleep. And all he wanted to do was read. He enjoyed the silence of the middle of the night. The foreboding blackness both inside and outside the house._

_From under the covers, he could just hide away. He smiled to himself, reaching out of the covers to find the little box of sweets beside his bed. He stuck a humbug in his mouth, sucking on it as he continued to read his book._

_He heard the car first. He sat up, hastily switching off his torch. He frowned. Oak Manor was half-a-mile away from the road. So any car he heard was surely coming up the driveway. He pulled the covers back and held his arms out in front of him to feel around so he didn’t walk into his desk. He tiptoed to the window, careful on the floorboards. He knew which ones creaked, and he avoided them so he didn’t wake anyone up. He pulled back a curtain._

_He could see the lights from the car outside, though he couldn’t make the vehicle out. It didn’t sound like Sherrinford’s Ford Fiesta, but he didn’t know enough about cars to make an educated guess._

_He would have been surprised if Sherrinford had returned anyway. He had only visited six weeks ago, regaling tales of his adventures in London, where he was working in a bar and studying physics by day._

_Sherrinford had left home two years previously. He had gone travelling first. Then he had got a place at King’s College London. Mycroft had been glad to see the back of him, if he’d been honest._

_The car pulled up to the drive. Mycroft frowned as he stared down at it. A police car. He grabbed his watch from the side. A police car at 1.30am?_

_He hastily closed the curtains, tiptoeing back to bed. He hid the book under his pillow and lay there, waiting, confused. He heard another car pull up on the driveway._

_Someone had to be dead, he thought. That was why police cars arrived in the middle of the night, wasn’t it? He heard the car doors slam closed. He swallowed. Police cars only brought bad news in the middle of the night. Well, at least he had time to prepare himself, he thought. He knew something terrible had happened and he could brace himself for it._

_There was the knock on the door. Redbeard barked and then ran down the stairs. “Redbeard!” Sherlock shouted tiredly from his room._

_“Stay in your room, Sherlock!” their father called. “Redbeard. To me, boy.” Mycroft frowned and slid out of bed. He crept over to the door, opening it just slightly. He could just make out the hallway light being turned on. “What can I do for you gentlemen?” Mycroft’s father asked._

_“We have a warrant to search this house,” a policeman answered. “I need you to stand aside, sir.”_

_“A warrant?” Mycroft’s father asked. “What on earth… it’s 1.30 in the morning.”_

_“I’m sorry for the intrusion, but we really must search it immediately.”_

_Mycroft swallowed. A warrant? He frowned. What had they done? Sherlock. He bet it was Sherlock, he was always up to something… Nothing criminal though. Not at seven-years-old..._

_“What’s going on?” Mycroft’s mother called from the stairs._

_“How many of you are in the house?” the officer asked._

_“Four.”_

_“I’m going to need you all to come downstairs. Have you got a living room you can all go to?”_

_“I’m sorry,” Mycroft’s mother said, heading downstairs. “I’m really going to have to insist that you leave.”_

_“Then we will need to arrest you. We have a warrant.”_

_There was a long pause. Mycroft heard footsteps approaching his room. He quickly sprinted back to his bed, lying down and pretending to be asleep. His door was pushed open. “Mycroft,” his mother said. “Mycroft.”_

_“Mmm?” he answered, trying to sound half-asleep._

_“I need you to put on your dressing gown and slippers. And then go downstairs. Please don’t be scared.”_

_He nodded dumbly, before getting up and doing as he was told. He padded down the stairs. His father was holding the door open to their informal lounge area. He had deep lines across his face, his jaw clenched. “Go on,” he murmured. “There’s a good lad.”_

_Mycroft frowned and took a seat in one of the chairs. He should have brought his book, he thought. Sherlock joined him a minute later, his hair sticking up at all angles. He was disgruntled as he sat down on the floor in his pyjamas, folding his arms. He hadn’t listened to the instructions to put a dressing gown on, and Mycroft saw the goosebumps on his arms._

_Mycroft’s parents closed the lounge door, and Mycroft didn’t hear anything for a few minutes._

_“What’s going on?” Sherlock whispered._

_Mycroft shook his head. “I don’t know.”_

_“I want Redbeard.” Sherlock stood up, dashing towards the door._

_“Sherlock!” Mycroft called after him._

_But it was too late. Sherlock was already opening the door and running through the house, shouting for his dog._

_“I don’t understand what you’re saying!” Mycroft heard his mother say. “Why would he… You’ve got it wrong.”_

_“We need to search the house,” an officer replied. “And we will need to take you in for questioning. Now, please, mam, will you just go to the living room?”_

_“Fine. Fine, but we’ll be contacting lawyers first thing in the morning.” Mycroft’s mother reached the door. “Where is-” She looked around as Sherlock appeared behind her, Redbeard dutifully in tow. “Oh for goodness sake. Will you stay where I tell you, for once?”_

_Their mother sat down in her usual chair by the fire, holding her hands together. Their father joined them a minute later, closing the door behind them. Sherlock took a seat beside Redbeard, who lay down, resting his head on Sherlock’s knee._

_“Boys,” their father said. “I know this is all rather… scary. But you mustn’t worry.”_

_Sherlock frowned. “I’m not worried,” he said. “If someone was dead, they would have told us already.”_

_Mycroft looked between his parents. “What’s going on?” he asked._

_“It’s your brother,” his father murmured. “He has been accused of… of something very serious. But I’m sure it’s all a mistake. But for now, we must all let the police do their jobs.”_

_“Can’t you call him?” Mycroft asked._

_“Apparently not yet. He has already used up his one phone call. Hopefully to a lawyer who can clear this mess up.”_

_“I can’t stand this,” their mother said, standing up and walking to the window. “Who do they think they are? Going through our home and our possessions…” Mycroft hung his head. “I don’t believe it,” she continued. “It’s ridiculous.”_

_They spent more than an hour in the room. Sherlock took to trying to build a tower with playing cards. Their mother stood, stony faced by the window, their father at her side, trying to convince her it would be fine. Mycroft just sat. He almost managed a laugh when Redbeard knocked over Sherlock’s playing cards with his tail._

_Eventually there was a knock on the door and an officer walked in. “Mr and Mrs Holmes. Can I have a word?”_

_Mycroft’s parents walked across to him and closed the door._

_“What do you think he did?” Sherlock asked._

_Mycroft frowned and shook his head. “Nothing. I don’t believe he did anything. Like daddy said. It’s all a big mistake.”_

_Sherlock shrugged and stroked Redbeard. “Police don’t come for no reason,” he said._

_Mycroft didn’t say a word. Then his mother came in. She knelt down beside Mycroft’s chair. “Look at me,” she said quietly, her voice shaking a little._

_He frowned and turned to her. “Yes?” he asked._

_“I need you to step up for me, Mycroft. Your father and I need to talk to the police and we may be away for several hours. You have to look after Sherlock.”_

_He frowned and nodded. “Yes, mummy.”_

_“The two of you should go to bed. If we’re not back in the morning, you need to make some toast. There’s plenty of food in the larder.” His mother reached out and cupped Mycroft’s cheek. “You have to look after your brother,” she said. “That’s your job now, Mycroft. Will you do that for me?”_

_Mycroft nodded. “Yes,” he whispered._

_She nodded and stood up. Sherlock peered up at her. “What did Sherrinford do?” he asked._

_She shook her head. “He didn’t do anything,” she replied softly, before leaving the room. Mycroft and Sherlock sat in silence while the police cars drove away._

_“Bed,” Mycroft finally announced. He stood up and wandered out of the living room and up the stairs, Sherlock and Redbeard following behind him. He switched on the light to Sherlock’s room._

_“No!” Sherlock exclaimed, rushing in. His stupid experiments had been pulled apart. His clothes thrown across the floor. Mycroft stared. Sherlock glared up at Mycroft. “They can’t do this!” he said. “They can’t!”_

_“They already have,” Mycroft said, pulling Sherlock’s cover and pillow from the bed. “Come on. You’ll sleep downstairs tonight.”_

_Thankfully, Sherlock didn’t argue. He curled up on the settee and allowed Mycroft to tuck the covers in around him. Redbeard wasn’t allowed on the settees usually, but Mycroft let it go, watching as the dog curled up at Sherlock’s feet. He turned the light out and went upstairs._

_Every room was pulled apart, including his own. He stared around at the carnage, angry. He glanced down the landing to where Sherrinford’s room was, the light still on. He walked towards the door and pushed it open. It wasn’t as messy. Instead, what was left of his possessions had all been taken._

_Mycroft switched the light off and pulled the door closed. Then he returned to Sherlock’s room. He didn’t mind mess usually. He tolerated it. But there was no way he was going to allow Sherlock to see his room in that state. So he sat down on the floor and began to fold his clothes, dutifully putting them back in the chest of drawers._

* * *

_‘Everything looks better in the morning’. That was what people used to tell one another, whenever they encountered some sort of difficulty._

_But Oak Manor didn’t look better in the morning. Mycroft’s room was still torn apart, and he was too tired to go in and sort it out. He made himself and Sherlock toast, and put food out for Redbeard. His mother called and said they would be staying in London for a day or two and their grandfather and Gerald were coming to stay with them._

_So, Mycroft began to clean everything up so they wouldn’t see the chaos for themselves. Sherlock went for a walk with Redbeard in the gardens. Mycroft tidied up his bedroom, and his parents’ room. He opened the door to his mother’s study, and saw all the books lying open on the floor and he spent several hours putting them back in order._

_His grandfather and Gerald arrived in the afternoon. His grandfather found Mycroft in the study, and he ruffled his hair. “You’re a good boy, Mycroft,” he said. “Well done. Now, go and do something enjoyable for a few hours.”_

_He sat in his room, by the window, staring outside. He half expected to see the Ford Fiesta with Sherrinford and his parents inside. But it never came._

_Gerald cooked them all dinner, which they ate in the kitchen rather than the dining room as they normally did. He tried to keep Sherlock entertained with stories and games, but Sherlock was having none of it. He sulked until he was time to get to bed._

_Mycroft knocked on his door. “Go ‘way!” Sherlock shouted._

_Mycroft frowned and opened the door anyway. Redbeard opened one eye and then closed it again, going back to his position with his head on Sherlock’s ankle._

_“What?” Sherlock demanded._

_“I don’t know.”_

_There was a long pause and Sherlock shrugged, sitting up a little bit. “They won’t tell me what happened. Did they tell you?”_

_“No.”_

_“Must have been really bad,” Sherlock decided. “What he did. Maybe he killed someone?”_

_Mycroft stared at him. “Sherlock… no. You can’t say that.”_

_“Why?”_

_Mycroft sighed. “Go to sleep, Sherlock.”_

_“I was trying,” his brother muttered. “’Til you knocked on the door.”_

_Mycroft managed an amused smile, closing the door behind him._

* * *

**March 2011.**

Sherlock was doing his job. For once. He was getting involved in solving high-profile crimes, appearing on the front of national newspapers. Mycroft read most of the articles, until they got tedious. They all said the same things - and mostly it was clear they had very little to say. They didn’t know anything about Sherlock or John Watson. Nothing substantial anyway.

Sherlock clearly despised every second of it. But he was doing the job he was told to, and that made a radical departure from his usual behaviour.

But they didn’t see it coming. Not the triple break-in. The Tower Of London, Pentonville Prison and the Bank Of England, simultaneously targeted by Moriarty. He saw it all happen on Watchtower. Saw the little red dots move across the city as police cars got into position.

He knew who it was immediately. There was no other suspect. He hadn’t waited long after his release from Poland to have a little fun.

He frowned at his phone.

 

MESSAGES Sherlock Holmes  
3.21pm: The break-ins. It’s Moriarty.  
SH

 

MESSAGES  
3.25pm: That was my suspicion too.  
I assume you are already on the case?  
M

 

MESSAGES Sherlock Holmes  
3.26pm: Yes. The police have him in  
custody. Case sounds sealed shut.  
It’s too easy. SH

 

Mycroft frowned and poured himself a cup of tea. He visited the major news websites, which were already reporting on the break-ins. He called for Anthea to join him and he pointed to the screen.

“Three simultaneous break-ins,” Mycroft murmured. “A man - Moriarty - already in custody. Three of the most secure locations in the country and one man finds a way in.”

“Sir?”

Mycroft pursed his lips. He glanced down at his phone as it beeped.

 

MESSAGES Greg Lestrade  
3.31pm: We’ve got him. We’ve got  
Moriarty.

 

“It should be a foregone conclusion,” Mycroft said softly. “When the court and a judge reviews the evidence, there can be only one outcome.” He frowned. “This isn’t the final play, it can’t be. It’s too simple.”

“He’s lulling you into a false sense of security,” Anthea said. “But he’s… what, planning an escape from prison?”

Mycroft frowned. “No. No, that’s… too simplistic. Someone even less of Moriarty’s calibre can manage that.” He frowned. Someone even less than Moriarty’s calibre had managed that, and from one of the most secure prisons in the country. ‘I met you brother,’ Moriarty had said… “Anthea, I need you to do something for me.”

“Yes, sir?”

“The prison records from HM Belmarsh. I need to know everyone who visited it from… From when it opened in 1991 to the end of January 2004.”

“Of course.”

“I’m only interested in the visiting records. They must keep track of that kind of thing. Do it, would you?”

Anthea nodded. “I’ll put in the request now,” she said.

He waited for her to leave before checking the story as it unravelled. Moriarty had already been arrested by the police, and Mycroft could keep an eye on Watchtower as he was processed.

He frowned when his phone rang. “Hello?”

“Mycroft, it’s me,” Greg said. “Sherlock told me to give you a ring. We’ve got Moriarty here and I’m about to take him in for questioning. Any tips?”

“Tips? No. Well...”

“What?” Greg asked.

“He will try to get to you through whatever means possible. I would advise sticking to questions, and repeating them if he refuses to answer. Don’t get drawn into a conversation with him.”

“Alright.”

“He’ll find it mind-numbing. He won’t believe you’re anywhere close to his intellect, so he’ll find it all rather tiresome. You may be able to exploit that.”

“Okay. Cheers, Mycroft.”

Mycroft bit his lip. The last thing he needed was for Greg to ruin everything he and Sherlock had already begun. “And Greg?”

“Yeah?”

“Don’t tell him anything about Sherlock. The man’s obsessed.”

“I promise,” Greg told him. “Don’t need to worry about that.”

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

“I’ll gather any intelligence we have on the incidents at our end,” Mycroft said. “Perhaps we can arrange a meeting to go through it all? We can’t afford to lose this.”

“Yeah, cheers, Mycroft. That would be great. I’ve got to go, but tell me when you’re sorted and we’ll arrange a meeting.”

“Wonderful. Best of luck with Moriarty.”

“Cheers.”

Mycroft put the phone down. There was nothing more to do but wait.

* * *

**October 1984.**

**Location: Oak Manor, Oxfordshire.**

_He woke early the next morning, before his grandfather and Gerald were awake. He went downstairs and poured himself a glass of orange juice. He collected the post when it arrived. His father’s copy of the The Telegraph came through the door. He unfolded the front page._

_‘IRA ‘sleeper’ charged over hotel bombing’._

_Mycroft carried it through to the kitchen, putting it down on the table for his grandfather to read later, until he caught the word ‘Holmes’ out of the corner of his eye._

_Frowning, he tucked it under his shirt and ran upstairs to his bedroom. He leaned against the closed door, fishing the newspaper back out and staring at the story._

AN IRA ‘sleeper’ appeared in court yesterday over a hotel bombing which killed five people and injured 31.

Sherrinford Holmes, aged 21, and of Oxfordshire, is the second person to be charged in connection to last month’s bombing.

A police officer told The Telegraph that Holmes is alleged to have acted as a ‘sleeper’ for the Provisional Irish Republican Army.

It is alleged that he remained a dormant agent of the IRA until he was given specific orders.

He appeared in court yesterday. He spoke only to confirm his name, and has not issued a plea to the terrorism charges.

_Mycroft read on, scarcely able to believe it. He knew, of course he knew, that his brother had been fascinated by Bobby Sands. He had been a member of the IRA, who died during a hunger strike in prison. He had said the strikers should be regarded as prisoners of war and not criminals._

_And yes, Sherrinford had argued with his father at length over Ireland’s right to self determination. And that had all come about after his travels abroad, after which he declared Britain was as bad as the Soviet Union._

_Mycroft hadn’t got involved. He thought Sherrinford was right on some issues, his father right on others. And he hadn’t known enough about it to make an informed decision. But this… he could scarcely believe his own brother was capable of it._

_He jumped as his grandfather called him down for breakfast. He hid the newspaper under his bed._

* * *

**March 2011.**

**Location: Whitehall.**

Mycroft managed to secure himself a place on the official enquiry, looking into how three of the country’s most secure and important buildings were broken into in such a way.

He’d already heard rumours of an ‘all access pass’, something in Moriarty’s possession. He thought it a ridiculous joke, when he heard it first of all. A computer code to open doors? It was ludicrous.

But he kept his concerns to himself.

 

To: Lestrade, Greg  
Subject: Meeting  
Dear Greg,  
I have been considering the Moriarty situation. The trial has been fast-tracked. Obviously we are all keen to see a satisfactory conclusion at the earliest possible convenience.  
As you are the officer in charge of the case, it seems prudent the two of us meet. I have a vast number of images and details which could be crucial.  
The evidence seems conclusive on the surface. But I am taking no chances where Moriarty is concerned. We all know what he is capable of. We need every single piece of evidence we can find. No one can be left in any doubt of his guilt.  
Anthea will be in touch.  
Kindest regards,  
Mycroft Holmes.

 

Sender: Lestrade, Greg  
Subject: Meeting  
Hi Mycroft,  
All sounds good to me. Would be great to have you on board. I’m already having to shift paperwork to the Crown Prosecution Service. Rushed off my feet at this end. Give me another week to get everything together.  
I’m trying to deal with this kidnapped banker case at the same time. Exhausted isn’t the word right now.  
Look forward to hearing from Anthea.  
Cheers,  
Greg

 

Greg arrived at the Coeur de Lion Offices towards the end of the month. Anthea had already spent much of the day accumulating what information she and Mycroft had so far. Their team had gone through every CCTV camera at their disposal, tracking Moriarty through the capital.

It had all been pinned to a wall, but Anthea took it all down so they could show it to Greg without letting him into the main Moriarty Operation room.

Mycroft was vetting lawyers while he waited. He needed to ensure the top prosecutors in the country were involved on the case. While it appeared a foregone conclusion from the outside, Mycroft refused to leave anything to chance.

Perhaps it would be simple? Perhaps Moriarty had misjudged the police. Doubtful. But even so, procedures had to be followed.

He glanced up as Greg walked into his office, carrying a laptop bag and some paperwork. Greg sat down, handing the papers over. “I think this is everything Anthea told me to bring. Plus some extras.”

Mycroft nodded. “Thank you. I have…” He opened his drawer. The little James Bond car rolled to the front. “All the CCTV images from that day containing Moriarty.” He passed them across the table.

“Great. Thanks.”

Loretta brought them both some coffee and biscuits. Greg dunked his biscuit into his drink, eating it while he studied the pictures. “Nice hat,” he muttered.

Mycroft glanced up from his laptop. “I’m sorry?”

“The hat Moriarty wore to get into the Tower. He goes in with the Union Jack on his cap and manages to wear the Queen’s jewels. Quite an upgrade.”

“Flag.”

Greg frowned. “Sorry?”

“He was wearing the Union Flag on his cap. Not the Union Jack. The Union Jack is flown only on ships.”

Greg smiled and nodded. “Right. Sorry.”

Mycroft frowned to himself, returning to his work. He was being defensive. He shouldn’t feel uncomfortable around Greg. He had no reason to, not while all they were doing was working. But everything was a mess. His head felt cluttered. His world too busy.

He wasn’t sure if he’d asked for any of this. For the amount of surveillance sitting on his computer. For the emails from politicians. For all the dinner invitations. He had invited it in, but he was not certain he wanted it to last forever.

And Greg he had wanted. Greg he still wanted for the rest of his life. And out of all the chaos and uncertainty, somehow he was the only thing that made sense.

Of course, he was the one thing he could not have.

He laughed as Greg kicked his shoes off and put his feet on Mycroft’s desk. He always did that. He always made himself at home, wherever he was. And it always felt as though he belonged in Mycroft’s life.

They worked for a few more hours, swapping notes and creating timelines. Mycroft chose a lawyer to run the case. And the longer it went on, the more Mycroft thought that perhaps it would work this time. Perhaps… perhaps. And then if Moriarty really did get put away for good… then maybe there was a chance for himself and Greg.

Perhaps.

“I’ll sit and have another chat with the CPS tomorrow then, and see if this helps the prosecution with their case,” Greg said.

Mycroft nodded. “I know the prosecutor. He’s very good.”

“We need better than good. We need the very best. Mycroft I… Moriarty shook me to the core. We have to get him. The idea of him on the streets just makes me feel sick.”

“There isn’t anything I wouldn’t do to bring about a satisfactory conclusion.”

Greg raised his eyebrows. “That’s a bit of a terrifying thought. But alright.” He put his shoes back on. “I guess I’ll… see you at the trial?”

“No, I can’t be seen to be there. I will have to follow it on the news.”

“Well, when we get the right result, I’m taking you out for a pint.”

Mycroft laughed. “A pint?”

“You’re right. Several pints,” Greg corrected.

Mycroft smiled. “Good luck in court.”

“Cheers. Fingers crossed ‘ey?” Greg walked out with his files and laptop.

* * *

**April 2011**

Sherlock helped to catch Peter Ricoletti. He made front page news again. And then Moriarty’s trial began at the Old Bailey. The trial of the century.

Mycroft had to watch it from afar, keeping up-to-date with developments via the internet and his team, who occasionally visited the court to sit in the public gallery. Not that it was always possible to get a seat.

Sherlock got himself sent to the cells under the Contempt of Court Act 1981. Mycroft had to bail him out.

Sherlock barged into Crusader House that night. “Do you know?” he asked.

Mycroft frowned, standing up. “About what?”

“What happens next? Moriarty is in prison because that’s exactly where he wants to be, but why?”

Mycroft shook his head. “I don’t know.”

“He’s not launching a defence.”

“He’s going to get out,” Mycroft said. “He knows how to escape from Belmarsh Prison. Assuming that's where he ends up.”

“How do you know that?” Sherlock asked.

“I have a suspicion. Look, Sherlock. One way or another, Moriarty will be on the streets, I suppose, in a matter of weeks. All we can do is wait.”

“I don’t want to wait.”

“Then come up with a plan.”

They eyed one another for a minute. “There was a journalist at the courthouse,” Sherlock said. “Kitty Riley. I have her card. She’s a junior, not yet got her first big scoop.”

“Will she work with us?”

“I doubt it.”

Mycroft rolled his eyes. “What did you say to her?”

“That she repels me.”

“For goodness sake. Must you offend everyone you meet?”

“We don’t want her. She’s not trustworthy. She’ll… step on anyone to get what she wants.”

“I’ll do some research. Find out what I can about her.”

Sherlock nodded. “Thanks.” He left just as quickly as he had arrived.

* * *

Moriarty was found not guilty. He must have threatened the jurors.

There was the game. The final puzzle began now. Mycroft glanced down at his phone. Calling: Greg Lestrade. Moriarty’s target. Along with John Watson and Mrs Hudson. This was it. Battle lines drawn. It didn’t matter what had come before. Greg was in imminent danger.

“I’m so sorry, Greg,” he said aloud to himself before answering the call. “What now?” he snapped, already hating that it had to be this way.

“Sorry,” Greg said quickly. “Sorry… I was just checking in to see what happened.”

“You know very well what happened. It’s over. Moriarty got away with it.”

“Mycroft, why are you pissed off at me?”

“I’d prefer it if you didn’t contact me in future.”

“Sorry, what?”

“I have to go.” Mycroft hung up the phone. He winced.

 

MESSAGES Sherlock Holmes  
3.45pm: You and I need to talk. SH

 

MESSAGES  
3.56pm: I’ll send a car. M

 

He met Sherlock at Crusader House. Sherlock was pacing the floor. It struck Mycroft then how much really had changed in six years. Sherlock had voluntarily gone to Mycroft’s flat. They were working together against some common evil. And Sherlock may have been pacing… but he wasn’t struggling with his drug addiction.

“Sherlock,” Mycroft said. “You’re wearing a path into my carpet. Did you meet him?”

Sherlock nodded. “I knew he would come round, as soon as I heard the result. Inevitable.”

“Do you remember what he said?

Sherlock frowned, shaking his head, even as he recited it. “He said I’m boring and on the side of the angels. He uses far too many metaphors.”

“He got to the jury, I presume?”

“Mmm. Said everyone has their pressure point.”

Mycroft frowned. “Pressure point?”

“Yes, you know-”

“-I know what it is. But I’ve heard someone use those exact words before. I was at a dinner at Chequers. There was a newspaper proprietor there… I overheard him telling someone that every person has a pressure point.” Mycroft frowned, remembering Charles Augustus Magnussen’s words. “And he knows their pressure points, it’s how he… how he owns them.”

Sherlock frowned. “Someone who could be working with Moriarty?”

“I’m not sure. It’s a possible connection, and worth investigating further. Leave that to me too.”

“He said the fall is going to start very soon. ‘I owe you a fall’, he said. And he wants to solve the final problem. _Our_ final problem.”

“What’s the final problem?” Mycroft asked.

“He tapped something out on his knee. But… I don’t know.”

Mycroft frowned. “How did he get into the bank? And Pentonville?”

“He… he says he has a code, which opens every door.”

Mycroft nodded, not entirely convinced that was true. “How… convenient. Moriarty said the same to me, when I met him. Wouldn’t it be lovely to see Sherlock Holmes fall from a great height?”

“Metaphorical fall? Or…”

“Or?”

Sherlock shook his head. “He wants to discredit me. But why would he want to end me?”

“It has to end somehow,” Mycroft said. “This… war between you cannot go on forever. Someone dies at the end of it.”

“Then let’s make sure it’s him and not me.”

“I intend to. He’ll play his next hand in the coming days and weeks, I expect. He’s playing the long game.”

“But how long?” Sherlock asked. “It won’t be months. Things will start happening very soon.”

* * *

** May 2011. **

Sherlock was right. Mycroft noticed the little changes. Small, at first. A new neighbour in Baker Street. A Russian assassin, by the name of Ludmila Dyachenko.

Then there was the new man on Greg Lestrade’s team. A young PC by the name of Owen Sharratt. That was what his records said. Owen Sharratt passed all the tests. Except he wasn’t real. He didn’t exist.

And Mycroft knew. That was the man hired to keep an eye on Greg Lestrade. This was the man who effectively had a gun pointed at Greg’s head. And there was nothing Mycroft could do about it. To take him out would prove he knew Greg was a target.

So he was forced to wait, knowing the man he loved was at risk every minute of every day.

Sherlock noticed the change too. “There’s another assassin in Baker Street,” he said as he stood in the Coeur de Lion Offices.

Mycroft nodded. “Yes.”

“That’s a man on Lestrade. An assassin on both John and Mrs Hudson.”

“That’s my reading of the situation too."

Sherlock turned to him, frowning. “Why don’t you care?” he asked. “You’re so preoccupied about saving me, but you don’t care about the people who-”

“-Sherlock, go through the list of people being targeted," Mycroft replied. 

“John, Mrs Hudson and L- oh.” Sherlock blinked at him. “I didn’t know you still…” He waved his hand around.

“I never stopped.”

“God, that must kill you.”

Mycroft nodded. “Every single day,” he said quietly. He sighed and stared at the pictures of the assassins. “And the wait goes on,” he murmured.

* * *

**December 2003.**

**Location: HM Prison Belmarsh, Thamesmead, London.**

_After only three minutes at the prison, Mycroft was glad he hadn’t made a habit out of visiting._

_He went through the first three gated doors. His fingerprints were taken. Then there were 12 more sets of gated doors after that, just to reach the reception area._

_He took his shoes off, dropping them into the tray provided. He slid off his coat and his jacket, folding them to go through the X-ray machine. He removed his other belongings and walked through the metal detector._

_He held his arms out, as he was searched. They checked his pockets. The soles of his feet, and the inside of his mouth were all checked._

_He put his jacket and shoes back on, before following a prison officer to a red iron gate. He stood in the centre of the room, while remote cameras studied his face to confirm his identity._

_He was let through four more sets of locked doors. Then finally, finally, he reached the visitor room. He put his belongings in the locker and took the key._

_He glanced around at the room, decorated almost like a cafeteria. He looked around at the other inmates. The other terrorists, the odd murderer, a man in for fraud, who didn’t seem quite look as though he belonged in such a high security unit._

_Mycroft took a seat at a round table, his hands clasped in front of him. He looked up as Sherrinford was led out. He was taller than Mycroft remembered. Perhaps taller than Sherlock had got. He had the same defined cheekbones of their younger brother, but darker eyes. His hair was similar to Mycroft’s, though disappointingly it wasn’t receding quite as much._

_Sherrinford was approaching 40 years old. Almost half his life had been spent in prison. He raised his eyebrows as he sat down, pursing his lips as he stared across at Mycroft. “How long has it been then?” he asked._

_“Around fifteen years, give or take," Mycroft replied._

_Sherrinford shook his head. “Nice of you to finally stop by.”_

_Mycroft blinked. “Is it?”_

_“No.”_

_Mycroft half smiled. “Sherlock stopped coming.”_

_Sherrinford nodded. “Yeah, about… about five years ago. He came about two weeks ago. So, it surprised me when your name suddenly appeared on my visitor sheet too. Is this one of mummy’s new schemes? You’ve all suddenly decided I exist again?”_

_“No. She doesn’t know I’m here.”_

_“Then why are you?”_

_“I came to see what all the fuss was about. Sherlock came to see you, left, immediately got high and found himself in hospital.”_

_“I didn’t tell him to carry on using drugs.”_

_“No, but you did tell him something.”_

_Sherrinford nodded. “I told him he was destroying his life, if you must know.”_

_Mycroft managed a smile. “He must have hated receiving that lecture from both of us.”_

_“I suppose so.”_

_“I see you’ve put in a request to be transferred to another prison.”_

_Sherrinford nodded. “Have you seen the people they put in here? Should I really be in a Category A prison?”_

_“You committed a terrorism offence.”_

_“Yeah, 20 years ago.”_

_“You also took a prisoner hostage. Twice.”_

_Sherrinford smiled. “They annoyed me.”_

_Mycroft shook his head. “And you wonder why no one wants to visit you.”_

_“I don’t wonder. It hurt, the first couple of years but I got used to it. Anyway, I’m getting out.”_

_Mycroft frowned. “I’m sorry?”_

_“The Good Friday Agreement,” Sherrinford explained. “I didn’t get let out like all the rest of the IRA prisoners, because I took some men hostage. Well, I did my time for that too. Now there’s a petition going for my release. Saying the Government needs to honour the Agreement properly and let me out.”_

_“Oh yes, I’m sure the 20 years you spent in here have more than made up for the five people you helped to kill, and the three others you maimed.”_

_“Aren’t you curious about why I did it?”_

_Mycroft shook his head. “I read the court transcripts when I took a Government job. I almost didn’t get the position. Because of you. I had to prove I didn’t have your same… terrorist affiliations.”_

_“Is supporting a country’s right to self-govern really a terrorist activity?”_

_“It is when you support it via violence.”_

_Sherrinford smiled wistfully. “I met this girl when I was travelling.”_

_Mycroft frowned. “Sorry?”_

_“This is what those court transcripts won’t tell you. Alaina, her name was. Beautiful. Red hair, eyes the same colour as grass. Of course, her brother hated me. He was IRA, through and through. He’d been involved in some fighting, but he hadn’t got caught. So, I showed him how to make a bomb. He got far more respect after that. I didn’t give a damn, Mycroft. The IRA. Irish independence. British Government. I didn’t really care. I sort of admired Bobby Sands. I sort of thought they had a right to give self-governing a go. But Alaina. All I wanted was her, and I’d never get her. I was just a posh Englishman, living on his parent’s wealth. But I was well-connected, wealthy and smart. I could make all sorts of IEDs. I was God’s gift to the cause. The things we do for love.”_

_“They called you a sleeper.”_

_Sherrinford nodded. “That’s what I was. Lying in wait until I was needed.”_

_“But they were following you. MI5.”_

_“Yeah, but they didn’t know about the hotel, did they? Didn’t catch me until I’d completed my mission. And I got the girl.”_

_Mycroft raised his eyebrows. “And where is she now?”_

_“Who knows. Maybe I’ll look her up. When I get out.”_

_Mycroft frowned. “You’re not getting out.”_

_Sherrinford frowned. “What?”_

_“You’re not getting out.”_

_“Says who?”_

_“I say so.”_

_Sherrinford snorted. “Yeah, like you have a say.”_

_“I do have a say. You forget how well I know you. You hold grudges. You’ll get out of here and you will go after every man who told the police and MI5 about you. And then you’ll go after our parents. Because somewhere in your bitter and twisted mind, you blame them for your 20 years of incarceration. And you destroyed our family. You weren’t there to see it, but I lived it. And I have a position of authority now." Mycroft narrowed his eyes. "The only way you are getting out of here is in a body bag.”_

_Sherrinford smirked. “Mmm. We’ll see about that. You’re annoying me now, Mycroft. Go on. Leave.”_

_Mycroft nodded and stood up. He didn’t say another word as he turned around and did just that._

* * *

**May 2011.**

**Location: Coeur de Lion Offices, Mayfair, London.**

Mycroft frowned as he skim-read the names Anthea gave him. The visitors to Belmarsh. And there it was: 2003. Sherlock’s visit to see Sherrinford. His own visit a few weeks later. But just six days before Sherlock’s visit was another name. A name which didn’t appear in any of the other logs.

Richard Brook.

Frowning, Mycroft typed his name into Google. And there he was. His picture on the first link he clicked on. Moriarty. Smiling. Not looking deranged.

He, Richard Brook (Moriarty) belonged to an acting agency. He had appeared in the children’s television show The Storyteller. There were videos of him on YouTube, looking… well, normal.

And if anyone had seen the pictures of Moriarty in the newspapers, they may have said ‘oh, he looks a bit like that fella from that kid’s show’. But they wouldn’t have even noticed.

And Mycroft thought perhaps he owed Sherlock a bit of an apology. Because it became clear now. It wasn’t Sherlock who told Sherrinford how to escape Belmarsh all those years ago.

It had been Moriarty all along.


	54. Loss

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this has taken so long. I have an exam on July 4, so I've been doing refresher courses. And I have extra responsibilities at work, so life has been MAD. But hey, it's all calming down and I passed my mock so it's looking good :) 
> 
> I hope this is okay. I'm freaking out again!

**June 2011.**

The walls were closing in. There was a tension everywhere. The weather edged between warm and humid, a storm threatening every evening. It never came. Like Moriarty, it waved its hand as a reminder it was a constant threat. But then it disappeared as quickly as it had arrived.

Mycroft knew Sherlock was spending his waking hours considering Moriarty’s riddles. But whatever he meant by them, one thing was abundantly clear. He intended to destroy Sherlock, by whatever means possible. And Mycroft had a feeling Sherlock’s favour in the press was at its peak. Unless he gave an interview, they were going to turn and they were going to turn fast.

And Mycroft was counting on that.

Charles Augustus Magnussen worked in a modern building, but it was nonetheless foreboding. This was only a fraction of Magnussen’s empire. The rest of it swam around him, gathering information and selling it on the front page.

And Mycroft couldn’t even begrudge him for it, because he did much the same thing.

Magnussen could make a politician’s career in a day. He could destroy it in less than an hour. Mycroft could do - and had done - the same. He was shown into the lift for Magnussen’s office. He didn’t ask to take the stairs. To show Magnussen one weakness was to surely have it exploited somewhere down the line.

Magnussen’s office was dark. Imposing. He sat at his desk, his hands clasped in front of him. “Mr Mycroft Holmes,” his words slithered out, and Mycroft felt his skin crawl. “I’ve been expecting this meeting for some time.”

Mycroft glanced over his shoulder, waiting for Magnussen’s PA to shut the door behind her. When she finally went, he approached the desk. “I expect you’ve done your research,” Mycroft said.

Magnussen smiled, a twisted, cold thing which only served to make Mycroft feel even less at ease. “I have friends in high places,” he replied with a wave of his hand. “As do you. We serve the same masters.”

Mycroft raised one eyebrow, waiting for Magnussen to invite him to take the chair on the other side of the desk. He didn’t. “You choose your own masters,” Mycroft said. “You put your considerable wealth behind a potential Prime Minister of your choosing.”

“You do the same,” Magnussen said. He finally gestured to the chair.

Mycroft pulled it out and took a seat, holding his chin up, determined to appear as in control as Magnussen.

“You’ve met with James Moriarty,” Mycroft said, clasping his hands together on the desk to mirror Magnussen’s posture.

“He brought tea. And scones and sandwiches from Claridge’s. It hasn’t escaped my notice that you have not done the same. Do you prefer to blackmail rather than bribe, Mr Holmes?”

“What could I possibly blackmail you with?” Mycroft asked. “The man who gathers secrets ensures he himself has no secrets to share.”

Magnussen smiled. “Quite correct,” he said. “And yet you have. Plenty of secrets. You think yourself as a man in the shadows but people talk about you when they think no one can hear them. I hear them. James Moriarty was very interested in you.”

“What did he want from you?”

“Your pressure point,” Magnussen replied.

Mycroft narrowed his eyes. “And what did you tell him?”

“That you crave power above all else.” Mycroft frowned for a moment. Magnussen rubbed his hands together. “Yes, I lied,” he said, amusement in his eyes. “Jim Moriarty could not give me anything I didn’t already have. The ability to unlock doors holds no appeal to me. Everything I need lies in information. Everything else is… merely trivial.”

“James Moriarty wants you to print a story, I presume?”

“Yes. He is working with someone.”

“Kitty Riley.”

Magnussen raised his eyebrows. “You are thorough.”

“She’s not been at work for eight days. Either she’s taken an extended holiday or she is keeping a source very close to her indeed.”

“Are you here to tell me not to print the story?”

“No,” Mycroft replied. “No. I’m demanding that you do.”

There was a long pause as Magnussen appeared to weigh up Mycroft’s words. “Miss Riley’s editor will not print it,” Magnussen explained. “He believes if he did, he would be sued for libel.”

“Yes, in ordinary circumstances, he would be,” Mycroft agreed. “But we won’t sue. All I ask is that I may look at the story before it goes to print.”

“Why?”

Mycroft kept his expression the same. He simply leaned back in his chair. “I presume you will want something from me in return?”

“What could you possibly have that I would want?” Magnussen asked. “Even James Moriarty had nothing of value to me.”

“Information,” Mycroft replied. He reached into his pocket and retrieved a phone. He frowned at it for a moment before holding it out. “This belonged to Irene Adler. I imagine you will find enough information to fill your newspapers for a few years.” He put the phone down on the desk.

“You’ve already censored it, I suspect.”

Mycroft shook his head. “No. I removed a few files which related to the United Kingdom’s national security. The rest of it…” He shook his head. “There are details about Members of Parliament which would scandalise the electorate.”

“I suspect I already know most of it.”

“John Carvie?” Mycroft asked. Magnussen bit his lip. “MP for Rockwell South. Fiddles his expenses, and managed to escape a drink driving charge through police corruption. Lord Smallwood. He had an affair with a 15-year-old. You’ll find the evidence on this phone. And that’s the tip of the iceberg. And all I ask is that you print Moriarty’s story and give me a chance to look at it first. Do we have a deal?”

“What benefit could this possibly have for you?”

Mycroft smiled coolly and stood up. “What use is a man with secrets if he doesn’t know how to trade a few? But if you’re not interested...” He reached for the phone. Magnussen took hold of it first.

“We have a deal,” Magnussen murmured. “He doesn’t know your pressure point, Mr Holmes. That it is your little brother.”

“And why is that?” Mycroft asked, retrieving his umbrella.

“He knows what you did in 2004. And he thinks you would do it again in a heartbeat to Sherlock Holmes to protect your career.”

Mycroft offered Magnussen one cool nod. “I see.”

“I’ll tell you when the story is due to go to press.”

“I’m grateful,” Mycroft said softly before turning and walking out.

* * *

**December 2003.**

**Location: The Holmes' cottage, Gloucestershire.**

_Christmas dinner had near enough been a civil occasion. There had been roast goose, with all the trimmings, plus extra potatoes, cooked in goose fat._

_Their father had worn a Christmas hat and everyone else refused, but it was familiar. Warm in a way things hadn’t been for years. If Mycroft had been less observant, he would have thought everything was fine._

_Sherlock was drug-free, or trying at the very least. Their father had recovered from his knee operation and was finally able to do more of the things he had before it. He was more sprightly, back to his old self._

_But something was wrong. Something lingered, unsaid. It wasn’t until later that night, that Mycroft overheard his parents talking in their bedroom._

_“He’s still my boy,” his mother said and Mycroft stopped dead in his tracks in the hallway. “He did those terrible things, but he is still my boy. And if he’s appealing to get out of that prison, then how can I not support him?”_

_Sherrinford. Of course._

_“I know,” Mycroft’s father replied._

_“But he’s not our child,” his mother said. “He’s not the son we brought up. I shouldn’t love him, not with all the things he did, but I still do anyway. And am I so terrible for wishing he was dead so we didn’t need to live with this over our heads anymore?”_

_Mycroft frowned and tiptoed quietly to his bedroom, closing the door behind him, her words still echoing in his head._

* * *

**June 2011.**

**Location: Anthea’s flat, Colosseum Terrace, London.**

Mycroft met Sherlock at Anthea and Arnou’s flat. They made their plans. Discussed a hundred scenarios then discounted a lot of them.

_A fall, a fall, I owe you a fall._ They discussed the words, over and over again until Sherlock lashed out, claiming boredom with the whole thing.

“For a man who despises being bored, he’s boring me,” Sherlock claimed one day. “Why wait? What could he possibly be waiting for?”

“Everything to move into position,” Anthea said, carrying in a tray of drinks. “His assassins. They’re not all in place yet, are they? Three targets. So far there is only the sniper on Detective Inspector Lestrade and the other on Martha Hudson.”

“He’ll choose someone special for John,” Mycroft murmured.

“Moran,” Sherlock said.

Mycroft nodded. “I think that’s a fair assumption. We know he is an expert sniper because of his previous activities. Irene Adler described him as unhinged. But I suspect he will do exactly as Moriarty demands.”

“He can’t know we’re working together. Moriarty. Or John.”

Mycroft nodded. “Then we we need to make our family feud look even worse than it is.”

“It can’t be much worse,” Sherlock said. “I’m not working with you out of choice.”

Mycroft took a deep breath in. “Sherlock,” he started. He frowned and then shook his head, glancing across at Anthea, not sure what he was going to say anyway. “It doesn’t matter.”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at him. He leaned forward and took one of the mugs from the tray as they all stayed silent. “There’s nothing more we can do,” Sherlock finally said. “Not until it begins to unravel.”

“Then we wait,” Mycroft agreed. “From now on, we truly are in the dark.”

But through all of it, Mycroft kept everything back. Everything about Magnussen, he kept to himself. The name Richard Brook was his to know and his alone.

Sherlock was a very good actor. But this had to play out the way Moriarty intended. Sherlock knew what was coming to some extent. But not all of it.

“What about John Watson?” Anthea asked when Sherlock had finally left.

“John has to believe Sherlock is a fraud. Moriarty will conduct the tell-all interview with Kitty Riley using all the information I fed him. I have reason to suspect Moriarty is living with Miss Riley. When the article comes out, I suspect John will know I’m the leak. He’s rather dense at times, but I think even he’ll put two and two together.”

* * *

He knew The Sun was going to print a teaser to the exclusive interview with Richard Brook. On Saturday, the big expose would be published.

He invited John over to the Diogenes Club, subtly through his bank account. Moriarty’s snipers were in position. Mycroft aimed to keep his interaction with Sherlock and his inner circle to a minimum.

He showed John the photographs of the assassins. The Albanian killer Sulejmani. Ludmila Dyachenko, the Russian.

“You think this is Moriarty?” John asked.

“He promised Sherlock he’d come back,” Mycroft pointed out.

“If this was Moriarty, we’d be dead already.”

“If not Moriarty, then who?” Mycroft asked him.

“Why don’t you talk to Sherlock if you’re so concerned about him?”

Mycroft glanced away, right on cue, reaching for the glass on the table, laying down the lies, the secret backstories, all for John to pick up on.

“Oh God, don’t tell me,” John said.

“Too much history between us, John. Old scores. Resentments.”

John rolled his eyes, standing up.

“We both know what’s coming, John,” Mycroft said to his retreating back. “Moriarty is obsessed. He’s sworn to destroy his only rival.”

“So you want me to watch out for your brother because he won’t accept your help.”

“If it’s not too much trouble,” Mycroft replied with a tight smile. John finally turned away and left. Mycroft pressed his lips together and sat back in his chair.

* * *

He kept a close eye on Sherlock’s movements while he solved the case of two missing children before going to New Scotland Yard.

The next thing Mycroft knew, one assassin was dead. Shot.

 

From: Holmes, Sherlock  
Subject: None  
It’s happening. Started with Sergeant Donovan. The seeds of doubt Moriarty planted. Lestrade will be round to arrest me next.

 

Mycroft frowned and sat back in his chair. He took a long breath. He slowly stood up and sent a message for the car to be sent. By the time he walked out of the Coeur de Lion Offices, it was already there.

He slid in, staring out of the window as he was taken to The Sun’s main offices. The editor met him in the reception, leading him through the half-empty newsroom.

“Final stories are just being put onto pages,” he explained. “I’ve not seen you before. Magnussen usually sends that bloke with the goatee if he needs a story changed.”

Mycroft frowned for a moment. He hadn’t realised Magnussen hadn’t explained exactly who he was. “I’m new,” he replied swiftly, glancing around the room. No sign of Kitty Riley. He was shown to a seat and the editor pulled up the page one and three lead.

“Here we are.”

Mycroft forced a smile, leaning forward in his seat to read the story.

_Sherlock’s a fake._

_He invented all the crimes._

_“All I had to do was learn my lines,” said Richard Brook._

Mycroft read it all. The references to Redbeard. Sherlock’s drug habit. How Richard Brook had supposedly tried to support him through it. Mycroft came to the paragraph about their brother.

_Richard Brook said that Sherlock and his brother Mycroft had an elder brother who worked for the IRA. He was imprisoned when Sherlock was just seven-years-old._

_His subsequent prison escape…_

“Delete all of that,” Mycroft said, pointing to the three paragraphs.

The editor frowned, but did as he was bid. Magnussen’s instructions had been clear at least, to let Mycroft do what he wanted with the story. As he took out the references to Sherrinford and left the building, he felt genuine fear come across him.

Moriarty wanted Sherlock dead. And how on earth could Mycroft prevent that? One newspaper story wouldn’t make a difference.

He got into the car and dropped his head in his hands. ‘Look after Sherlock’, their mother had said.

And oh, he had. He had. Hadn’t he?

* * *

**January 2004.**

**Location: SIS Building, Vauxhall Cross, London.**

_It had started with the mutterings. “Apparently someone’s broken out of Belmarsh.”_

_“What? Belmarsh? Really? No one’s ever escaped Belmarsh.”_

_“That’s what I’m hearing from the police.”_

_He had cast the murmurings aside, because it was not his responsibility. Belmarsh was home to 900 prisoners. What were the chances?_

_It took just 40 minutes for official confirmation to reach him, while he was walking through the MI6 building. Sherrinford Holmes was the escaped prisoner. He shouldn’t have been surprised. Not really._

_But it took a few moments for the words to settle in._

_Sherrinford had warned him. Mycroft had told him the only way he was getting out of prison was in a body bag. But Sherrinford had said “we’ll see about that.”_

_Mycroft didn’t have an office of his own at Vauxhall Cross anymore. He hadn’t since he left MI6 in 1997. But over the intervening years, his work for SIS had picked up again. They had needed him too much to let him leave completely._

_He made his way to Hugh Seagrove’s office, and after a quick knock, he let himself in. Hugh was on the phone and waved him in._

_“No one knows how he got out,” Hugh said, frowning as he hung the phone up. “No one’s ever done it before. It’s not even an old prison.”_

_Mycroft nodded, taking a seat opposite. “He’s a known terrorist.”_

_“Well, 20 years ago. I heard he was appealing his sentence. There were rumours they were going to let him out.” Hugh frowned. “Why escape, when you’re getting out anyway?”_

_Mycroft simply pursed his lips. Because Sherrinford knew he wasn’t getting out. Not while Mycroft was still breathing._

_“How long has he been gone for?” Mycroft asked._

_“Could be hours,” Hugh admitted._

_“I assume MI5 is working with the police?”_

_“Nope. It’s us. IRA and Ireland link means it crosses borders. And to be honest, no one at MI5 wanted it. We’ll find him. Any idea how anyone can get out? Have you looked at the prison schematics yet?” Hugh slid the drawings over to Mycroft across the desk._

_Mycroft glanced down at them but hardly took it in. Sherlock would have known how to escape. Sherrinford was intelligent, but not in Mycroft or Sherlock’s league. But Sherlock had seen him only a few weeks before Mycroft had. He would have worked an escape route out without a problem._

 

* * *

_The photograph of a man’s dead body flashed up on Hugh Seagrove’s computer half an hour later. “The police have identified the victim as Shawn Lowry,” Hugh explained. “He was a former IRA member, who gave evidence against the suspect, Sherrinford Holmes, in court. The picture was dropped into a police station in Berkshire about 50 minutes ago.”_

_“What? A physical picture?” an agent asked._

_“He doesn’t know what the internet is,” Mycroft murmured. “He’s been in prison since 1984.”_

_“Shit. Doesn’t know the internet?”_

_Mycroft ignored him. “Has anyone released a public appeal?”_

_“Not yet,” the Chief Superintendent for the Metropolitan Police said. “We’re working on one.”_

_“I think it’s fair to say the man is armed and dangerous,” Mycroft remarked. “Work faster at alerting the public.”_

* * *

**June 2011.**

**Location: Anthea’s flat, Colosseum Terrace, London.**

Mycroft knew to expect Sherlock. He had been watching him all night, while he escaped the police and ran to Kitty Riley’s house. Anthea let him in without a word, before going to her and Arnou’s bedroom and closing the door.

“The newspaper,” Sherlock said when she left them to it. “That was your doing.”

Mycroft nodded. “I ensured it was printed. Yes.”

“You could have warned me.”

Mycroft blinked. He couldn’t understand why Sherlock was so angry with him. “I had to let it play out.”

“You played me!”

Mycroft swallowed, frowning. “You and I have been discussing this for months, you knew-”

“-You kept things back from me, vital information which would have been very useful had I known it.”

“And what would you have done?” Mycroft asked. “You had to fall right into Moriarty’s trap or he would have known what was going on and killed them all.”

“I can be discreet!” Sherlock snapped at him.

“Discreet?” Mycroft asked, despairingly. He stood up. “ _Discreet_? With your blogger putting every piece of your life on the internet? John Watson put the fact that Irene Adler is in a witness protection scheme on his blog, for goodness sake!”

“You and I agreed to keep John out of it. Just because I would have known the whole plan doesn’t mean he would have done.”

“And what point during this evening’s activities would you have slipped up and spilled the entire plan, Sherlock? Tonight? When you realised this may be your last night alive and you need to say goodbye? Or tomorrow, when you go to meet Moriarty? And you tell John you’re not a fraud, just so he knows? Just so, when you die, as Moriarty plans you do, Moriarty knows to kill John Watson first, just to spite you.”

“Shut up.”

“Use your brain, Sherlock! Moriarty wants you dead. You and I both know this. But not before you’re completely discredited. In everyone’s eyes. Including John Watson’s.”

“I wouldn’t have said anything!” Sherlock insisted.

“Wouldn’t you?”

They stared at each other for a few long moments. Sherlock’s mouth twisted into a sardonic smile and he let out a small huff. “I should have known.”

Mycroft frowned. “Known what?”

“This is as much of a game to you as it is to Moriarty. All this talk about wanting to keep me alive. I mean, why would you? I know what you _did._ ”

Mycroft shook his head. “You think you know, Sherlock. But you don’t.”

“You always say that. ‘Oh, Sherlock, you’re so stupid, how can you possibly think I killed our own brother?’” Sherlock mimicked. He rolled his eyes. “Which plan?”

Mycroft frowned. “Sorry?”

“Tomorrow. I invite Moriarty to Bart’s rooftop.”

“No. We ruled that out.”

“I have help,” Sherlock said. “Molly Hooper. If it comes to it… if it gets to it, then she’ll help.”

“She’ll perjure herself,” Mycroft said. “If we fake your death, we’ll need a swift inquest afterwards.”

“Then you’ll protect her from any subsequent perjury charges,” Sherlock said. “Won’t you.”

Mycroft nodded once. “Of course,” he murmured. “Lazarus is a last resort, Sherlock. If it gets to it… there’s no telling how long you may need to be gone for.”

“Well, it’s better than me dying, isn’t it?” Sherlock said. “From my perspective anyway, if not yours.” And with that, he spun around and left the flat.

Anthea walked out of the bedroom, raising her eyebrows. “John Watson,” she said, holding her phone up. “He’s gone to the Diogenes.”

Mycroft groaned. “For goodness sake,” he muttered.

“I’m sorry I heard all of that,” she said softly. “If you ever need to talk-”

“-I don’t,” he said sharply, picking up his umbrella. He turned to her, pressing his lips together. “Caring benefits no one, Miss Boyette.”

And he left, getting the car to the Diogenes, where he found John Watson sitting in his private room.

“She has really done her homework, Miss Riley,” John said. “Things that only someone close to Sherlock could know. Your own brother, and you blabbed about his entire life to this maniac.”

Mycroft took a seat. “I never inten... I never dreamt…” he began, lying. He swallowed.

“This is what you were trying to tell me, isn’t it?” John said. “Watch his back, ’cause I’ve made a mistake. Moriarty wanted Sherlock destroyed, right? And you have given him the perfect ammunition.”

John let out a bitter smile, standing up and striding for the door.

“John…” Mycroft called after him. And after everything between he and Sherlock… he said the two words he wasn’t certain he’d ever said to him directly. “I’m sorry.”

“Oh please,” John muttered.

“Tell him, would you?” Mycroft asked.

John simply left.

And Mycroft was sorry. For a great many things.

* * *

**January 2004.**

**Location: SIS Building, Vauxhall Cross, London.**

_Sherrinford had killed another man. Blew his brains out. He’d been a former IRA member, who’d spent several years in prison. He was released after the Good Friday Agreement and wrote a book, detailing his apologies and explaining how wrong he and the IRA had been._

_Mycroft was stood in Hugh’s office with Hugh and the Chief Superintendent for the Met, who was liaising between the police and MI6._

_They stared down at the picture of the body._

_“We’ll have to find a better prison,” Hugh muttered. “When they finally track him down.”_

_“No,” Mycroft murmured._

_Hugh frowned. “Sorry?”_

_“No prison is secure enough.” Mycroft licked his lips. Not if Sherlock had anything to do with it. “There’s only one option.”_

_“We don’t…” The Chief Super shuffled his feet. “We only shoot to kill if there’s a threat to life and…”_

_“There is,” Mycroft said, nodding towards the photograph. “An immediate threat. And not just to former members of the IRA. Sherrinford Holmes is a terrorist. Already members of the IRA regard him as a hero. He is wiping out those who disobeyed direct orders. Killing those who turned their backs on the cause. But there are loyal IRA members still out there, as determined as ever, just waiting. Sleeper cells, hiding in plain sight across the country. This man, this one single man, is enough to bring back the days of the IRA. Imagine two threats at once. Al-Qaeda and the IRA, both bombing London with the same fury.”_

_Hugh took a long breath. “You reckon we need to… You’re talking about killing him.”_

_Mycroft glanced at him. “I don’t take this decision lightly,” he said._

_“Well, no, but…”_

_“He’s my brother, Hugh,” Mycroft said softly._

_Hugh frowned. “What? I know his name is Holmes but I just thought it… coincidence.”_

_Mycroft raised his eyebrows. “You clearly never reviewed my file.”_

_“Sylvia Ross never let me,” Hugh said. “Never let anyone. She treated you like a special case.”_

_Mycroft raised his eyebrows, surprised. He turned to the Chief Superintendent. “There is a vacancy opening at the Metropolitan Police. A Commander position. If you make the right moves, I’m sure you can make a good case for being given the job. Make the right moves today, on this case, and I can guarantee it.”_

_The Chief stared at him. “If I… if I manage to… to sort out this prisoner then you… you’ll clear the way for me?”_

_Mycroft didn’t reply, but simply handed him the picture of the man’s body. “This is only the beginning if this man is allowed to live,” he murmured. “From prison, he’ll single-handedly have the influence to bring the IRA back to full strength. You know what needs to be done.”_

_The Chief bit his lip and nodded. “I need to… to make a call,” he said, quietly leaving the room._

_Hugh waited for the door to close before speaking. “Did that really just happen?” he asked, disbelieving. “Did you really just give that order?”_

_Mycroft held his eyes. “My job is to protect this country. I’m only doing what I set out to do.” He picked up his briefcase. “Keep me informed, Hugh,” he said softly, before walking out of the office._

* * *

**June 2011.**

**Location: The Coeur de Lion Offices, Pall Mall.**

Mycroft arrived at the office at 4am. At a little bit after 7am, he received a text from Sherlock.

 

MESSAGES Sherlock Holmes  
7.02am: Now. Get rid of John.

 

MESSAGES  
7.02am: And you do the same. Break  
it off, Sherlock. Caring is not an  
advantage, remember. Show him that.

 

Mycroft sighed and showed the messages to Anthea. A moment later, they invited Loretta into Mycroft’s office, and held up a piece of paper with notes for her to recite down a newly-bought mobile phone.

“Mr Watson?” Loretta said. “I’m a paramedic. I’m at 221 Baker Street. Mrs Hudson has been shot. She’s alive, and we’re taking her to hospital immediately. Are you coming?”

Loretta handed the phone back. Mycroft nodded to her. “Thank you,” he said softly. He waited for her to leave. “Well?” he asked Anthea.

“We have our gunmen in position. Jim Braum is directing the operation as planned. Cameras fixed on Bart’s roof. Molly Hooper in place, with a body. Our agents are in the streets below.”

Mycroft nodded. “Very well,” he said quietly. “Then I suppose there is nothing more we can do.”

He trusted his team. They knew the plans inside and out. All he needed to do was give the signal.

He couldn’t bring himself to watch the CCTV. Anthea sat on the settee, and he knew she was watching it. Her face was pale. Concerned. He swallowed and stared down at his desk.

“He’s going to jump,” she whispered.

Mycroft glanced up at her. “I haven’t had the signal.”

“He’s on the phone.”

“We need to wait for the signal.”

 

MESSAGES Sherlock Holmes  
8.16am: LAZARUS.

 

Mycroft nodded to Anthea. “Lazarus. Go.”

“Yes, sir” she said, picking up her phone.

The next few minutes were a blur. Mycroft marched out of the building and into the car outside, his heart pounding. He stared at his phone, his hands shaking as he gripped it. If Sherlock died…

No. He couldn’t die, that was why they had the plans in place. But still he doubted. And there were still the gunmen. All in place, ready to shoot. Greg’s life was as much in the balance as Sherlock’s.

His phone beeped.

 

MESSAGES Anthea Fortier  
8.27am: Mr X is being driven  
from Bart’s to the new location.

 

Mycroft took a deep breath in. He was alive. Sherlock was alive. He scrolled through his phone contacts and called his mother.

“Hello?” she answered.

“It’s me,” Mycroft said. “You’re going to hear some terrible news in just under an hour. I want you to know that none of it is true. You need to believe that. Don't believe a word of it.”

“Mycroft, what’s…”

“Sherlock is fine. I am fine. But I need you to pretend you believe the news.”

“What is it?”

“It’s a matter of national importance. Everyone must believe Sherlock is dead.”

There was a long silence. “Is he?” she asked.

“No. He’s not.”

“Mycroft, do you promise he-”

“-He’s fine. I promise. I need to go. I’ll talk to you in a few days.” He hung up the phone. He got out of the car as soon as it parked outside of Molly’s building. He jogged up the stairs and picked the lock to let himself in.

Sherlock was sat on the settee, his face pale. “There was no key to open doors,” he said, his voice low. “No computer code.”

Mycroft nodded. “Yes. I suspected that was the case.”

Sherlock glared at him. “Have you ever been honest about a single thing?”

“What do you want me to say?” Mycroft asked.

Sherlock shook his head. “There’s nothing you can say.”

“You leave for South America tomorrow,” Mycroft murmured. “You’ll meet Irene Adler in Bolivia. You’ll remain there for a few days, before crossing the border to work with my associates in the CIA. It’ll give us some time to get up to speed with the full extent of Moriarty’s organisation.”

“Our parents?”

“Have been informed.”

Sherlock nodded. “I’m effectively dead.”

“Yes.”

“Look after John,” Sherlock said, and Mycroft saw genuine sorrow in his eyes. “And the rest.”

“I will.”

“You should go.”

Mycroft bit his lip and frowned. He was about to turn for the door and then stopped himself. “You were right,” he finally said.

“What?" Sherlock asked. 

“Sherrinford. I did give the order.”

Sherlock stared at him, emotion flicking across his eyes for a moment. “Well, he was a terrorist, I suppose.”

Mycroft frowned. “I’m sorry?”

“Our brother. He was a murderer. He killed people. So you had him killed.” Sherlock slowly stood up to his full height. “You like to believe he destroyed our family. It fits into your warped notion of how everything broke down. But he was gone for 20 years. The truth is, you destroyed it. You left at 18 and you hardly ever came home. You went to America and you never called. You’ve built this story in your head where I’m our parents’ ‘favourite’. Well, it’s hardly surprising when you only rang them once or twice a year.” Sherlock shook his head. “Moriarty told I was him. And I thought, I really thought, I was. I thought only being clever, _really_ clever, mattered. But for that to be true, I would need to be just like you. And I don't ever want to be like you.”

Sherlock let out a sardonic laugh. “And it hurts, Mycroft! _This_!” He clenched his fists. “I’m dead! I’m alive, but I’m still dead. Everyone out there thinks I lied about everything. And I can’t come back, maybe not for years. And yes, this was Moriarty’s plan. But you know what, Mycroft? You ensured his plan succeeded to its full effect. So I might not be dead, not technically. But I may as well be. And it’s all on you.”

Mycroft swallowed. “I did what needed to be done. I-”

“-No. No, you went far beyond anything that needed to be done,” Sherlock spat out. “Now get out.”

Mycroft wavered for one second before heading for the door. He half-expected Sherlock to say something else. He didn’t. So Mycroft walked out of the door.

He had a voicemail from Greg, his voice trembling as he spoke. “Mycroft? It’s Greg. Lestrade. I know we’ve not spoken for a while but I… I just heard he… Please call and tell me it’s not true. I… I’m so sorry. For everything.”

Mycroft sat in his chair by the fire in Crusader House. He closed his eyes and played the message again and again. Greg’s voice, breaking. His heart, broken.

And Mycroft saw the darkness in himself more acutely than he ever had before.

* * *

**January 2004.**

**Location: The Holmes Cottage, Gloucestershire.**

_ He arrived at the cottage, knowing Sherrinford was dead. He had left London as soon as he had confirmation. His mother was stood outside in the garden, gripping onto the fence. She lifted her eyes as Mycroft parked the car and got out. Her eyes were red from crying. Mycroft reached her. He paused for a second then touched her cold hand. _

_“You should put a coat on,” he murmured._

_“Go inside, Mycroft,” she whispered._

_Mycroft nodded once. He knew she would deal with her grief alone. He stepped inside. His father was moving the furniture in the living room. He headed for the kitchen. Sherlock was stood by the window and abruptly turned to him._

_“What did you do?” Sherlock snapped._

_Mycroft frowned. “Do?”_

_“We received the news 40 minutes ago. It takes two-and-a-half hours to drive from London to here. And even with your Government job, there’s no way you receive the news that far in advance of next of kin.” Sherlock took a few steps towards him, until they were just feet apart. Mycroft felt the intensity of his gaze like a knife. “So what did you do?”_

_“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Mycroft murmured._

_“Liar,” Sherlock spat out. “Don’t think I don’t know. You’re not welcome here.” And then he stormed past him._

* * *

**June 2011.**

**Location: The Diogenes Club, Pall Mall, London.**

_Suicide of fake genius_ , the papers proclaimed.

Sherlock was due to be on an aeroplane in a few hours’ time. Alive. But perhaps not well.

And no one was safe. The gunmen were still there. Greg’s life, John’s life, Martha Hudson’s life, all still in the balance.

One wrong move, and they’d be dead too. And Mycroft had done what he had to to do, just as he always had done. He had to believe that.

But he had still failed. In so many ways, no matter how he made decisions claiming they were for the greater good, he lost every single time. He was playing a game he'd never win. Fighting for justices which would never come to pass. 

He had lost everything. His parents wouldn't forgive this, not when he told them the truth of what was happening. Sherlock's hatred of him was more acute than ever. And he was about to push Greg Lestrade even further away in order to save his life. 

And being alone was the only option. It protected him. 

But the truth was, he wasn't sure he was suited to it. 

He lowered the paper, and stared into the distance, knowing his conscience would never be clear.


	55. Aftermath

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all the AMAZING comments on the last chapter. I want to comment personally, but it's 2am and if I did, I'd never post this. But I ADORE you all.

**June 2011.**

He made the funeral arrangements himself, the day after Sherlock’s ‘suicide’. He sent the details to a small circle of people. He knew there would be media attention. Despite a polite family request that the press did not attend, he knew they would not listen. Sherlock’s suicide was big news.

The same day he arranged the service, he travelled to his parents’ cottage. His mother was uncharacteristically quiet when she let him in. He sat down in the living room, exchanging pleasantries until the inevitable questioning began.

“How much of these stories is a lie?” his father asked, his voice soft, sad.

“All of it,” Mycroft replied. “He never invented the crimes. He solved them all. You know he did.”

“Well, of course he did,” his mother said as she stirred her tea, the spoon clinking against the fine china. “We all know his brain.”

“Why did this have to happen?” his father asked.

“I can’t tell you. National security. It’s better you don’t know. But he is safe. And we are working together to ensure he can return home as soon as possible.”

“How soon?”

Mycroft took a bite of the carrot cake. “I don’t know. We’ll have a better idea in the next few weeks. In the meantime, you should keep your heads down. There is another thing. We’re staging a funeral in a few days’ time. It would look wrong if you didn’t attend.”

There was a long pause. “Do you have any idea of what you’re asking of us?” his mother asked.

Mycroft frowned, taken aback by her tone. “No. I’m sure I don’t. But we don’t have any choice.”

“There’s always a choice, Mycroft.”

“Your non-attendance would be noted. It would look wrong. And it could put Sherlock in danger.”

“You said he’s safe.”

“He is. Currently.”

His mother shook her head. “You two,” she murmured. She stood up, putting her cup and saucer on the table. “If you had children of your own you’d understand what you all just…” She shook her head and left them alone.

Mycroft looked over at his father. “We know you deserve better than us,” he said.

“We love you both,” his father replied evenly. “But you will need to give us time.”

Mycroft stood up. “I should get back to London,” he said. He reached into his pocket and put a note on the table. “These are the funeral… the… fake funeral arrangements.”

His father nodded. “We’ve buried one son, Mycroft. Don’t make it a second.”

“Yes, father,” Mycroft said, before turning and walking out of the house. He got behind the wheel and drove himself back to London.

He emailed the funeral arrangements to Greg, John, Molly and Mrs Hudson. Jim Braum arranged some sort of security detail. And the Metropolitan Police intended to provide the rest, knowing there was a risk of trouble.

There had already been stories in the newspapers, with the families of murder victims wondering if Sherlock was responsible for their loved ones’ killing after all. A review into the Metropolitan Police’s handling of Sherlock’s cases had already been called for.

Greg Lestrade had his neck on the block already. Mycroft knew it was only a matter of time until the axe fell. Though he intended to stop it before it severed Greg’s head from his body. But he would have to wait. It was not the time yet.

Anthea broke to the news to him that Greg had requested Jane Starnes attended the funeral.

Mycroft felt it like a knife to his heart, but agreed without questioning it. He kept himself busy. Work didn’t end just because Moriarty was out of the picture. In fact, he had to catch up on all the things he’d been neglecting.

He kept in touch with Irene Adler, since Sherlock was refusing to talk to him. He began to monitor the situation in Eastern Europe. With Moriarty gone, a war was being raged, as gangs and criminals waited for a new king to emerge.

He got a car by himself to the funeral, at a crematorium outside of London. He was first to arrive, and he stared straight ahead as he walked by the press. Kitty Riley was among them. A few police officers mulled around. Owen Sharratt, the man with a gun on Greg, was noticeably preset.

Mycroft pursed his lips and stepped inside the building. He met with the vicar, shaking his hand.

“If you don’t mind, Mr Holmes, this is Zachary Quinz,” the vicar said. “He is here to observe. He would like to follow in my footsteps one day.”

Mycroft glanced at the man, aged in his early 20s, a gun hidden inside his jacket. Another gunman, clearly observing proceedings to ensure nothing was amiss.

“Of course not,” Mycroft said. His phone beeped and he glanced at it. “Excuse me.” He walked outside as a car pulled up. He opened one of the back doors to let his mother out.

She met his eyes for just a moment before getting out of the car, walking on into the chapel alone. Mycroft’s father shook his hand. “Give her time,” he said, as they walked in together.

Mycroft led his parents to the front seats, out of the way so no one would approach them to ask them questions. He nodded his head as Anthea walked in, her phone out. “Jim Braum says everything is fine,” she whispered. She lay her hand on Mycroft’s forearm for the briefest of seconds. They shared a look, both knowing the gesture was for show.

“You’ve seen what I saw,” Mycroft murmured, inclining his head towards the gunman.

“Yes. I’ve alerted Jim.”

“Thank you.” He turned to the window, letting out a long sigh. From his vantage point, he could see up the path as people walked in.

John Watson arrived with Mrs Hudson. The psychosomatic limp was back. His hands were clenched at his sides, while she dabbed her face with a handkerchief, make-up smudged beneath her left eye.

John didn’t even look at Mycroft as he walked in. Mycroft pressed his lips together. He didn’t expect, or want, anything else.

It was such a farce. Such a charade. Sherlock would have hated them for doing this for him, if he really had died.

Molly shuffled down the path, her head bowed. She forced teary smile, kissing John on the cheek and letting Mrs Hudson clasp her hands with her own.

Mycroft checked his watch. With five minutes to go, Greg walked down the path. Mycroft caught his breath. He hardly recognised him. He’d let his stubble grow. He had dark rings under his haunted eyes, cigarette stains on his fingers. Jane Starnes wore a black dress with her trademark towering heels. But for a woman who hardly knew Sherlock, her sorrow was all-too apparent too.

She was there for support, Mycroft supposed. There was nothing to indicate she and Greg had spent a significant amount of time together, or that they’d had enjoyed any… recent relations.

Mycroft took a seat behind his parents, Anthea beside him. He hardly listened to the music. He just stared at Zachary Quinz, half expecting him to pull out his weapon and start shooting just for the fun of it. Moriarty would have loved that.

People stood as the short ceremony came to an end.

“Targets one and two are leaving,” Mycroft murmured to Anthea, watching John and Mrs Hudson walk out with Molly. “Alert Jim. I want security detail and maximum surveillance on them for the next week at least.”

“Yes, sir.”

Mycroft watched as Jane Starnes and Greg walked to the front of the room. She signed a message in the book of condolences, but Greg didn’t. He lit a candle though, and Mycroft couldn’t help but stare at Greg’s trembling hand, at how hard he fought to keep his composure.

The man was breaking, Mycroft thought. And worse was inevitably yet to come, with the looming enquiry. Greg lifted his head and caught Mycroft watching him. Mycroft felt jolts of electricity through him, his chest clenching. If he didn’t keep up the charade, then Greg would have a bullet through his chest faster than Mycroft could blink.

So he turned away. “Target three moving,” Anthea said under her breath.

Mycroft nodded, turning back to the window. He bit his bottom lip and watched as Greg and Jane walked back down the path. Greg’s shoulders were hunched, his footsteps slow.

Mycroft’s father patted him on the shoulder as they too left. His mother silently kissed him on the cheek. And they walked out together.

Mycroft didn’t say a word to Anthea as they walked out too. He shut out the shouts from the reporters. He sunk into the car, Anthea beside him.

“Where to?” Kamik asked him. “To the office?”

“No. Drop Anthea home, and then the same for me, please.”

“No, the Coeur de Lion for me,” Anthea said. She glanced at Mycroft. “There’s still work to be done.”

Mycroft nodded gratefully to her and turned to stare out of the window.

“Call him in a few weeks,” Anthea said.

“Who?”

“Greg.”

Mycroft shook his head. “No.”

He heard Anthea sigh beside him. The car pulled up outside the office. She reached out to him, to touch his arm again.

“Don’t,” Mycroft said, his voice tight.

“Right,” she whispered, before slipping out of the car.

Mycroft gripped the handrail as he walked up to his flat. The world was spinning around him. He felt sick. He wasn’t sure he’d eaten properly in days.

He closed the door and leaned against it, tilting his back. He let his eyes fall closed. He saw Greg in his mind. His desolate expression. His empty eyes. Like someone had taken all his warmth, all his light, all the perfect, wonderful things which made up Greg Lestrade… and had stolen them all away.

They’d left a shell.

No. Mycroft had left a shell. Moriarty, he and Sherlock had taken a considerate, kind, loving man and… they’d broken him. And it wasn’t going to end for him yet, this pain, this torture. It would keep on, because questions needed answering and processes needed to be followed. Appearances were vital.

The first sob felt as though it was yanked out of his chest. He turned to face the door, pressing his forehead against the cold wood. He clenched his hands into fists and pounded one against the door. He squeezed his eyes together, his face aching as he tried to hold his tears at bay.

But he broke. The tension of so many years overawed him. His shoulders shook as he cried, beating his fist against the door.

He was grieving. He felt grief for Sherlock, though he hadn’t died. He was hurting, from all those words his brother had left him with. For the blame he was piling on himself. For the emptiness in Greg Lestrade’s eyes. The eyes of the man he loved, loved so much, more than anything he’d ever known.

He had always known he was bad for Greg. That Greg was good and wonderful, and Mycroft had known along he would drag him into the abyss. But he’d been so selfish. He’d needed Greg so much, to anchor him, to make him feel good. To make him feel decent. Human.

With an anguished yell, he pushed himself away from the door and wiped his face. He took four deep, steadying breaths. He stared around at his home. So clean. So tidy. So void of anything real.

It was just furniture. Possessions. Empty.

Mycroft swallowed and stormed through to his office, letting the door handle slam into the wall. He pulled the picture of the Queen off the wall, carefully putting it onto the desk. He input his code to the safe and pulled it open. He dropped wads of paper onto the floor until he found it.

The orb tie pin Greg had given him for his birthday. He gripped it in his hand, until it was no longer cold.

He fell asleep with it that night, still resting on his palm.

* * *

**July 2011.**

If Mycroft understood anything at all, it was that appearances mattered. The inquests into the Metropolitan Police’s actions in relation to Sherlock began almost instantly.

Anthea brought Mycroft the transcripts every day. He read every single word. He could hear Greg’s voice in his head, as he defended Sherlock. As he recounted every single case they had worked on together. And never once did he mention Mycroft. It was as though he knew the risk to Mycroft’s job and position if he did that.

And Mycroft thought that Greg didn’t owe him anything, but he gave him that nonetheless. Such an honourable man. A man deserving of so much more.

He went to Molly Hooper’s flat when she had finished a shift. She let him in with a wary smile, stepping aside. Her cat glared at him from across the room as he sat on the edge of her worn sofa.

She sat across from him, a cushion in her lap. “How… can I ask how he is?” she asked.

Mycroft nodded. “Fine,” he said.

“Good,” Molly said with an attempt at a smile. “And everyone else?”

“John Watson is currently with his sister.”

Molly nodded. “Well, he’s with somebody so that’s good. I see grieving people all the time at the morgue and they don’t have families and it’s terrible because you can’t…” She frowned, biting her lip as she stared down at her knees. “I get… I talk when I’m nervous.”

“It’s quite alright.”

She flicked her eyes up to his. “You make me nervous.”

“I have that affect on people, I’m afraid. It’s not intentional.”

“Sometimes I expect it is. Do you want tea?”

“No. Thank you.” Mycroft frowned as the cat jumped off the windowsill and wandered into the kitchen.

“He’s called Toby,” Molly explained. “The cat.”

“I see.”

“Not that I mind much, but what did you come for?” Molly asked. “Does… you know who need anything?”

“No. He’s fine. I just wanted to lay out the facts.”

“I won’t say anything,” Molly told him quickly. “Sher… he, you know, he explained everything to me.”

“You signed his death certificate, Miss Hooper.”

She nodded. “Anything, I said. I told him I’d do anything he needed.”

“You’ll need to testify in court at the inquest. You’ll be committing perjury. But no one need ever know. You’ll never get in trouble for it. I wanted to assure you of that.”

“I’m not worried about that,” she replied. “He’s alive. It’s good. It’s… that’s why I did it.”

“Nonetheless. Things will get… worse before they get better.”

“I don’t read the newspapers.”

Mycroft reached into his briefcase. “Some notes. To help you through the inquest.”

She took them from him, her eyes skimming the words. “Will you not be there?”

“No. No, I have a prepared statement which will be read out by the coroner, but I won’t be there in person.” He stood up. “I can’t convey my… the depth of my…”

“You don’t need to,” she replied, looking up at him. “It must be hurting you.”

“We cannot, should not, grieve for someone who isn’t dead.”

“But it hurts to see everyone else grieving, doesn’t it?”

Mycroft swallowed. “Thank you, Miss Hooper. For all you’ve done.” He opened the door to her flat and quietly left.

Sherlock was working with a few of Mycroft’s associates in the CIA. Mycroft had sent Bill Tomlinson there too, since Bill knew them as well as Mycroft had. Mycroft understood Sherlock was learning to shoot a gun, among other skills. He had always been good at fencing and at other forms of martial arts, but he was enhancing his skills and working on his fitness.

There were more crimes in London than there had been before Moriarty had died.

It was normal, Mycroft supposed. The criminals no longer had a leader, or a name to fear. Instead, they could conduct their own activities. The Metropolitan Police was coming in for a lot of criticism.

The suspensions of Greg, Sergeant Donovan and Philip Anderson were not sufficient, particularly as the conduct hearings were being held in private.

He spent many hours in the Diogenes with a drink, sat in his chair, just thinking, considering. Simply existing.

It felt as though Sherlock was dead. He’d got so used to walking over to Baker Street, or having Sherlock barge in on him, that it really felt as though he was gone for good. Forever.

* * *

Work had been an escape once. The Olympics were a year away and Mycroft needed to work on the final security arrangements.

“So, that’s £1.4million for… Mycroft.”

“Hm?” He looked back from the flowers on the windowsill, frowning. “Yes?”

Sylvia Ross raised her eyebrows. “I wasn’t aware my tulips were quite so distracting.”

“I’m sorry,” he said, blinking.

“I know things are difficult. Are you sure you shouldn’t be taking time off?”

“No,” he murmured. “No, I’m better at work.”

“If you’re sure. No one would blame you, Mycroft.”

Blame? “For what?” he asked defensively.

“For taking time off. What did you think I was referring to?”

He shook his head. “Nothing.” He stood up. “Mrs Ross. Can you finish this with Anthea?”

“Yes, of course I can. But promise me you’ll read it and then sign it. I can’t give this to Nadia and Hugh without your approval, but I won’t do it even with your approval if I don’t think you’ve read it.”

“Duly noted.”

“Look after yourself, Mycroft.”

“Yes, Mrs Ross,” he said, leaving her office. He rubbed his face and began to walk down the stairs.

The world spun before his eyes. He leaned against the wall, resting his palms against it, finding relief in the cold stone against his skin. He took a few deep, shaking breaths. The walls were closing in on him. He felt paralysed. Sweaty and overwhelmed.

But he had to get out of there. He looked up at the ceiling, inhaled, then began to jog down the stairs.

He headed straight for the exit, blinking into the bright sunlight. He stood in the car park until Kamik Toor drove the car to him. He climbed onto the back seat, staring out of the window.

Kamik didn’t say a word. He just drove Mycroft to Crusader House. He dragged his feet as he made his way up the stairs. Mrs Lunden was dusting. He murmured an apology to her for interrupting, and told her she didn’t need to stop what she was doing.

“Is everything alright, Mr Holmes?” she asked.

He looked over his shoulder at her. He didn’t say anything. Just retreated into the bathroom. He splashed cold water onto his pale face. He looked old. Worn out. Haggard, almost. Thinner. He knew he hadn’t been taking care of himself, and he didn’t completely recognise the man in the mirror.

He called his doctor that afternoon. Dr Stark provided him with a month’s worth of sleeping pills.

* * *

He went to Baker Street the next day. Mrs Hudson was doing some ironing. They held one another’s eyes for a few moments. “I just left his flat as it was,” she told him. “Did you need the key?”

“No. Thank you. How are you?”

“Silly question,” she replied, her bottom lip trembling. “Cup of tea?” He nodded reluctantly, going to sit at her kitchen table. “John told me what you did,” she said. “You shouldn’t be here if he comes round. He has a bit of a temper sometimes.”

“Is he likely to come here?”

“You never know. He might.” She boiled the kettle and carried over two mugs. She sat down opposite him.

“I’ll pay for the room,” Mycroft said after a moment. “The flat upstairs. Whatever it costs, I’ll cover it.”

“You don’t need to.”

“You need the income. And I think it needs to remain as it is, for the moment. In case Doctor Watson chooses to return.”

“It’s like a museum without them in it. I hoovered the first few days, but I didn’t want to move anything. Should I move things?”

“No, it’s fine.”

“Your mother. Won’t she want something of his?”

“She has plenty,” Mycroft assured her. “I promise.”

“You should be with them. A time like this… Everyone needs their family. It’s all we have.”

Mycroft looked around the kitchen. “You’ve done some decorating.”

“A man down the street. European. He was very cheap.”

The assassin, Mycroft thought. It had been so easy for Moriarty to target them all. They had all made it too simple. Mycroft stood up. “Thank you. For the tea.”

She looked up at him. “Try to contact John, would you? I rang him but he never… I understand. He’s with his family but… A time like this.” She hung her head. “I never had any children. Sherlock was… could have been one. He was so…” She sniffed.

Mycroft took that as a cue to leave.

* * *

**August 2011.**

His team had tracked down John Watson to his sister’s house, but he’d left there now. He’d found a flat near Battersea, a run down thing, surrounded by drug dealers. If a gunman continued to follow him, they hadn’t made it obvious.

John would stumble out of pubs at all hours. Get into fights. Hide away in his flat. Mycroft was concerned, but every time he tried to call, he was cut off. Not that he could blame John for that. But Sherlock had told him to look after him and he was failing miserably.

But Sherlock was finally talking to him. There was an edge of excitement to his voice. “I’m leaving tomorrow,” he declared. “Argentina. To find the artist who painted the fake Vermeer.”

“Be careful, Sherlock.”

“I’m fine. I’m drawing up leads at the moment. Trying to work out who the main players were and are.”

“You’re talking about taking down crime syndicates.”

“Yeah. Is London…?”

“It’s still standing. Everything is still standing.”

“Good.”

“Throw the phone away, Sherlock.”

“Yeah, got it,” he replied tiredly. “Later.” Sherlock hung up. Mycroft sat back in his chair, frowning. He toyed with his phone and tried John again. The call was ended after a single ring. He hadn’t changed his phone number anyway. Mycroft wondered if it was because a small bit of John still believed Sherlock would come back.

Mycroft downed the rest of his whiskey. He chewed his bottom lip. Only one more person to check on. And he couldn’t afford to sound attached, in case someone was monitoring Greg’s phone.

It rang a few times and he was about to hang up when the call was accepted. A second of silence passed. “Greg. It’s Mycroft.”

“Hi,” Greg replied. Mycroft closed his eyes, savouring the sound of his voice, his heart beating faster. “What’s up?”

Everything. Everything was so wrong. God, he needed Greg so much. “Have you spoken to John?” Mycroft asked, swallowing, gripping the edge of the desk with his other hand.

“John? No.”

“He is avoiding my calls.”

“I see.”

Mycroft winced to himself, hating every second of forcing himself to be so detached. “I’m concerned about his well-being.”

“I’ll try and contact him.”

“Please tell him to give me a call.”

“Get him to give you a call yourself,” Greg snapped.

Mycroft winced. “Greg-”

“If you care so much, then go and knock on his door.”

“He won’t open it,” Mycroft said.

“Don’t blame him.” And then the phone went dead. Mycroft slowly lowered it from his ear. He hit his fist against the table then looked up at the knock on his office door. Anthea walked in and handed him some papers.

“Final transcripts,” she said.

Mycroft stared at her. “Greg’s inquest. It’s finished?”

She nodded. “Yes. What happened?”

“Nothing.”

“Mycr-Mr Holmes. Your hands are shaking.”

He swallowed and dropped his hands into his lap. “It’s fine,” he muttered.

“I’m worried about you,” she said softly. “I’m not the only one. Jim and… me. Jim and I. We’re worried.”

“Just do your job, Anthea. Looking out for my well-being does not come into your job description.”

“No, you’re right, it doesn’t,” she muttered. She walked for the door and then stopped. “The day I got married, you gave me away,” she said, not turning to face him. “We weren’t just employer and employee then. If you need anything. Anything at all.” She turned to him. “You’re not alone, Mycroft.”

“Yes, I am,” he whispered. He reached for the transcripts from the inquest, running his thumb against Greg’s name on the paper. “Go home, Anthea. One of us needs to be awake enough to run this office in the morning.”

She left without another word. He let his eyes fall closed. He wished he could pluck his heart from his chest and burn it so he could not feel another thing. He wished he didn’t care. He wished he could lift the weight from his shoulders.

He longed to be forgiven for things he knew he could never be forgiven for. He reached into his jacket pocket and took out the tie pin, running his thumb against it.

He wished he didn’t love Greg Lestrade with every fibre of his being. He wished he hadn’t hurt the man who deserved so, so much more. 

* * *

 

**September 2011.**

Sherlock was in Mexico. Mycroft hadn’t quite ascertained what he was doing there, but he received intermittent messages from Irene Adler to let him know they were quite safe. It wasn’t very reassuring, but he knew he would have to be satisfied with that at the very least.

He buried himself in his work. There was chaos everywhere. Uprisings in Syria, Libya, Egypt. Magnussen’s newspapers were accusing MPs of fiddling their expenses, mostly using the information Mycroft had provided him. The economic crisis rumbled on.

Mycroft was in demand at GCHQ and the CIA. He did some freelance work for colleagues in America, all desk-based but the work was thankfully interesting. He watched the world as it rumbled on.

He found little satisfaction in anything he did, but it kept his mind active. He still had teams watching John, Mrs Hudson and Greg. All were still being threatened by gunmen.

The one following Mrs Hudson disappeared one day. Mycroft suspected the man had realised Moriarty was gone, no one was going to kill him if he vanished, and so he simply got bored. If he was good at his job, Mycroft supposed there was money on offer elsewhere.

No one replaced him. And that was that.

Moran, who Mycroft was almost certain was following John Watson, was another story. He was dedicated. Relentless.

And Owen Sharratt, on Greg’s detail, actually appeared to be enjoying his work for the Metropolitan Police. Mycroft knew he had to take things slowly or someone stepping into Moriarty’s shoes might suspect something.

But he monitored the situation.

But monitoring Sherlock would be impossible if he not get surveillance measures across not just Europe, but across the world.

He began his negotiations in Russia. Diplomatic surveillance, he called it. The Russians called it spying, taking great pleasure at reminding him about the fake rock from several years ago.

But if he didn’t get some measure of keeping an eye on Sherlock while he was travelling, he was fearful they would lose him altogether. He could be dead for months, and Mycroft wouldn’t know.

He struggled to sleep. He would stare at his phone, expecting a phone call to inform him Sherlock or Greg were dead. Thankfully Greg had gone to France, and Owen Sharratt couldn’t follow him there without blowing his cover, and the phone call never came.

* * *

**October 2011.**

**Location: New Scotland Yard, London.**

He arrived early one morning. He went straight to the Commander’s office, waiting politely for him. They shook hands when the time came for their meeting.

“Thank you for seeing me,” Mycroft told him, taking a seat.

“Any time. What can I help you with this time?”

“I was… curious about the result of the enquires. DI Lestrade, Sergeant Donovan.”

“Oh right. Yeah, guilty as sin.”

Mycroft frowned. “Sorry?”

“Guilty. Clearly. I’ve got a recommendation right here, that there needs to be a court case brought against both of them. Maybe the entire serious crime unit.”

“That wouldn’t… look good,” Mycroft murmured, suddenly concerned. He hadn’t foreseen this. He should have done, he supposed, but he’d been so sure everyone would want to prevent the scandal that it wouldn’t get to this.

“Maybe not. It would… well, justice would be done, wouldn’t it?”

Mycroft raised his eyebrows. “I suppose so,” he said slowly. “But trust in the police is at an all-time low. I doubt this would help or be of any comfort to the public.”

The Commander narrowed his eyes. “You want me to drop it.”

“Yes.”

“No.”

Mycroft rolled his eyes. Drastic measures… “I know you told Irene Adler about Sherrinford Holmes,” Mycroft said, sitting back in his chair. “That the only reason you got promoted is because you ensured one of your armed officers had him killed.”

The Commander gritted his teeth. “Just get out of my office, for goodness-”

“-I need you to give Lestrade and Donovan back their jobs,” Mycroft continued. “Matter of national security, you see.”

“How?”

“I can’t tell you how. But I need you to ensure they both get their jobs back with immediate effect. This has been going on long enough, Commander.”

“I can’t do that.”

Mycroft reached into his briefcase. “I can offer you a job on an Executive Liaison Committee. Nine to five job, more pay, better benefits. I advise you to take it. We both know I could make your life thoroughly miserable if you don’t.”

“I’ll give you Donovan,” the Commander said. “Lestrade’s a corrupt copper.”

“He’s not,” Mycroft replied. “He has never been bribed by anyone. He is as good as they get.” Oh, wasn’t he just? Mycroft sighed. “I really must insist.”

“Mycroft… I am sick to death of taking your orders. You think you can blackmail me all the time…”

“I’m not blackmailing you. Merely making a suggestion. If you take this job, you’ll never need to work with Lestrade again anyway. You never liked the Met. This way, you get more money, and you can wash your hands off this whole sorry mess. Regardless of whether this goes to court or not, people will soon be calling for your head. Better to get out before it gets to that, don’t you think?”

The Commander let out an agitated groan. “I despise you,” he said.

Mycroft stood up with a cool smile. “It’s mutual,” he said. “Best of luck on the Executive Liaison Committee,” he added, before walking out.

As he left, he caught the eye of a young Detective Inspector, someone who had once been a PC on Greg’s team. It was so wrong, Mycroft thought, what had happened. It had all been for appearances. And Mycroft had insisted it be that way.

And he couldn’t even begin to understand what Greg had gone through. The enquiry, the waiting…

Mycroft couldn’t imagine it. But he felt the weight of it. He gave Anthea the job of keeping surveillance on Greg. He couldn’t bring himself to read the reports, knowing Greg spent every waking hour alone in his home.

He dreamed of him every night. He found his name in his phone contact book and got so close to calling. And he couldn’t. He couldn’t because a man had a gun pointed at Greg’s head. He couldn’t take the risk. But there was nothing in the world he wanted more than to hear Greg’s voice. To tell him it would be okay.

He knew it never would be.

* * *

**November 2011.**

**Location: The Coeur de Lion Offices, Mayfair, London.**

Mycroft had already begun working on a report to clear Sherlock’s name, when Anthea informed him Greg had started researching it himself.

He asked her to gather all the evidence they had so they could send it to Greg. He wrote everything he could think of, so Greg would have everything he would need. But he caught sight of Greg’s movements on Anthea’s surveillance notes. How he would work at the Yard, then wander to Bart’s, to Baker Street, as though he was retracing steps. Or trying to find solace.

And then it came to it.

“Here are all the files Detective Inspector Lestrade will need,” Anthea said, handing over a folder. “Do you want me to deliver them?”

“No. I have changed my mind.”

“Sir?”

“I believe he needs to do this for himself. He blames himself too much for Sherlock's death.”

“It would get the job done more quickly,” Anthea reminded him.

“It doesn’t matter.” He looked at her. “Sherlock won’t be back for a very long time,” he said softly. “We have time.”

* * *

He tried to take some time off when he realised he was struggling to concentrate on his work again. He knew no one could work constantly without a break, though he’d done a good job of it over the years.

But sleep still didn’t come easily. Alcohol didn’t even help. He found he had nothing in his life he enjoyed. No reason to go home. He hated the emptiness of it, the silence. And it was while he was searching for something, anything to fill the void, that he put his name forward for the Natural History Museum board of trustees.

He never thought he would be successful. And for the first few days, when he received all his new contracts and reports, he found some light at the end of the tunnel. The chance to do something he truly enjoyed.

But when he walked into the building, he realised he hadn’t been there since he had broken up with Greg. The building, that beautiful building he loved so much, was full of broken memories. He stood on the balcony overlooking the hall. And he just felt despair.

He missed Greg so much. The sound of his voice, his caring nature, his beautiful heart.

He remained as a trustee, but his enthusiasm had waned. With no one to share it with, he felt truly alone. And he’d done it to himself, he knew. Forced those around him to take a step away. Tried to cut himself off from everyone.

But it was eating him from the inside out. Breaking him, slowly, with every passing hour.

* * *

**December 2011.**

**Location: Crusader House, Pall Mall, London.**

He hadn’t slept properly in what felt like days. So when his phone rang at 3am, he was furious.

“What?” he snapped.

“Sorry, boss,” Jim Braum said. “Just got a message for you.”

“What is it?”

“Owen Sharratt’s dead.”

Mycroft sat up straight. “I’m sorry?”

“Sharratt, the bloke on Lestrade’s detail? He slipped up. Got drunk, put himself in the firing line.” Jim paused. “I mean that literally.”

“He’s dead?”

“Yeah. Yeah, he’s dead.”

Mycroft let out a soft sigh. “Thank you,” he whispered. “Thank you.”

* * *

He didn’t get complacent. He expected another gunman to arrive on Greg’s door any day. But no one ever did.

He worked over Christmas. He was barely on speaking terms with his mother. She hadn’t even invited him over. So he sat, alone, in his office at his flat.

And this was his life now, he thought. Like living in a black hole, void of everything. Every day, the same, full of murders and terrorists and plots and corruption. There was only blackness in the world. Everything was bleak.

He carried the tie pin in his pocket. It brought only a little comfort. But it did remind him that once upon a time, he had been a man who had been deserving of someone’s affections. That once, somebody had cared about him. But it wasn’t enough to bring him peace.

* * *

**January 2012.**

**Location: The Coeur de Lion Offices, Mayfair, London.**

Mycroft blinked into the bright lights of his laptop. He glanced at the time. It was only 9.30pm. His office smelt like his leftover Chinese takeaway, even though he’d washed the plate up several hours ago. He scrolled through Watchtower, hunting for something to do but found nothing of interest.

He was surprised when Anthea knocked on the door, as he’d assumed she’d gone home several hours ago. She handed him a wad of papers. “DI Lestrade sent this to the Attorney General,” she told him.

Mycroft read the contents page. It consisted of more than a hundred pages, explaining why Sherlock Holmes was innocent of the charges levied against him. “He did it,” Mycroft said, stunned. Greg really had done it.

“Yes,” Anthea said. “He did."

Mycroft had a sip of his water. “I’ll read this in the morning. I might go home.”

Anthea took a step closer to desk. She lay down a photograph. A CCTV image. Of Greg, leaving his flat in the morning.

Mycroft tilted his head. “Anthea…”

“He works until 10 or 11 at night,” she said. “Sometimes later. Cooped up in his office. He leaves in the early hours, before the sun’s up and he returns when it’s dark. He sees no one except the people he works with. And even they dislike him or mistrust him.”

Mycroft shook his head. “Don’t.”

“He’s all alone, Mycroft. And I understood that you couldn’t talk to him. Because there was a man with a gun, following him, threatening him. But the gunman’s gone now. And he hasn’t been replaced. And you’re still letting him be alone. Blaming himself and hating himself. If you don’t go to see him… then I quit.”

Mycroft frowned at her. “What?”

“I’ll quit if you don’t see him. Because you’re both so miserable. And you shouldn’t have to be. Jim’s in the car outside now.”

“Jim?”

“He’ll drive to you the Yard. If you get there in the next hour, Greg will still be there. Go.” And then she spun around and closed the door behind her.

Mycroft stared down at the photograph. It was true that Greg looked exhausted. Still attractive, but so sad.

Mycroft turned the picture upside down on his desk and turned back to his work. But his eyes flicked back to Greg’s report. To the CCTV image. He didn’t believe for a single second that there would ever be hope for the two of them together, not in the way he still longed for, even after all that time.

But he missed the sound of his voice. The comfort he found in those dark eyes and wide smile. He ached for him. He dreamed about him every night and sometimes he could delude himself into thinking he would move on. But he never had.

He took a deep breath and stood up. He grabbed his coat and then put it back down on his chair. How could he? After everything he’d done to Greg, how could he ever go to see him?

And yet he closed his laptop and picked his coat back up, putting it on. He walked out through the almost-deserted office and got into the car. Jim turned round in his seat. “Good decision, boss,” he said with a half smile.

“I’ll have a word with you and Anthea tomorrow,” Mycroft muttered. “For insubordination.”

Jim laughed, starting up the car. “Y’can do that all you like, boss. But hell, I’ll take it. It’ll be worth it.”

“You’re both far too bold.”

“Maybe,” Jim said. “But you always think you’re alone. You forget you’re not. You forget that some of us actually like you. Fuck knows why sometimes, the way you are. Maybe it’s part of your charm, who the hell knows? But I’ve worked for you for 12 years, and I’ll work for you for another 12. Loyalty. That’s what we’ve got.”

Mycroft stared out of the window, watching the lights on the cars and the buildings they passed.

“I’ve never seen you so happy than when you were with Lestrade,” Jim continued. “Not only were you bloody happy, you were on the top of your game. I’ve see you in meetings, second guessing yourself all the time. You ask that bloke… the one with the posh accent who has all the parties.”

“Hugh Seagroves,” Mycroft muttered.

“Right, yeah. You let him off the hook all the time. Half his bloody tactics are a complete shambles. You just… let it slide. Ah, right. Here we go.”

Mycroft glanced up at the New Scotland Yard building.

“I’ll be damned,” Jim said. “It’s like fate.”

It took Mycroft a few seconds to understand what Jim could possibly be referring to. Then he saw Greg, sitting on the curb, cigarette in hand.

“Hardly fate,” Mycroft muttered. “I imagine he does this every night, and you and Anthea timed it perfectly.”

Jim laughed. “Good luck,” he said.

Mycroft sighed. He reached for the door handle and hesitated for a moment. Greg would hate him. He was right to hate him too. But he had to just see. To know. Just… to find out once and for all. He owed him an apology, at the very least. Taking a deep breath, Mycroft opened the door. He stepped out, his mouth going dry as he closed it behind him. He checked the road for cars then walked across it, edging slowly towards Greg.

Greg met his eyes. He looked just as he had in the CCTV image. Exhausted. Gaunt. Far too thin. He was smoking a lot, Mycroft could see that from his hands. His eyes looked hollowed out and empty.

Mycroft reached him. He opened his briefcase and put a newspaper on the floor, slowly lowering himself down, though his right knee twinged as he did so. Mycroft shivered, staring up at the black sky, some stars barely visible through the clouds.

He must have come up with at least 50 conversation starters. None of them seemed appropriate. They hadn’t spoken for months, and when they’d last spoken before all of that, it had been so Mycroft could cut him out entirely. He shouldn’t have come. But he couldn’t leave now. He was certain this would be the last time they ever saw one another.

He let out a long breath. “I know what you did,” he finally said.

“And what was that?” Greg asked.

“You sent a file with all the evidence to clear Sherlock’s name to the Attorney General’s office.” Mycroft watched out of the corner of his eye as Greg lit another cigarette, his hands shaking. “I haven’t had time to read it all yet, but no one else could have compiled such a complete and well-constructed report. It won’t be ignored. I shall see to it myself. It may take more than a year to see anything done, but I will exert my influence where I can.”

Greg grunted and Mycroft couldn’t bring himself to look at him. Greg deserved so much more than all of this. And Mycroft knew he couldn’t give him any of it.

Greg dropped the cigarette into the road. Mycroft stared down at it, watching its light go out. He might have laughed bitterly at the symbolism of it all, if he hadn’t felt so heartbroken.

“I expect you must be relieved to have it all over,” Mycroft said.

“It’s not fucking over,” Greg spat out, his voice trembling.

Mycroft glanced at him. Greg was clenching his teeth. From up close, Mycroft could see how bloodshot his eyes were. “Get in the car,” Mycroft said.

“No.”

“Get in the car, Greg, and we’ll go back to Crusader House for a stiff drink.”

Greg let out a hollow laugh. “No chance.”

“There’s no point in being stubborn. I am as determined as you are, and I will ultimately win.”

“Piss off, Mycroft.”

“Get in the car, Greg,” Mycroft repeated, more resolved. They could get it all out somehow. He’d find a way to offer Greg some solace and peace, at least. Anything to cure the emptiness which surrounded him.

“No,” Greg replied. “I don’t just do what you tell me. Not anymore.”

“One drink. And then you need never see me again.”

Greg stood up. “Fine. But this better be a big glass of whiskey you’re offering me.”

“Of course,” Mycroft replied, watching as he marched to the car. He stood up and collected his briefcase and newspaper. He took a seat, folding his hands in his lap. Jim was mercifully silent. Mycroft let the heaviness of their silence linger between them. He hadn’t thought any of this through. He hadn’t dreamt this was going to happen. And he hated the spontaneity of it all. He had considered that he would never speak to Greg again in his life. And now they were here and… it was too much.

Jim parked the car and Mycroft managed to offer him a quiet thank you. He led Greg into Crusader House and then up the stairs. His heart was racing. At some point soon, he would need to watch Greg walk out of his door again, and out of his life forever.

This was worse, he thought. Getting so close only to know Greg would never stay.

Wordlessly, Mycroft wandered into the kitchen and poured them each a drink. He chose the cheapest whiskey he could find, knowing that when Greg left, he would never be able to bring himself to drink it again. God, he was pathetic.

He carried the drinks out, finding Greg had taken a seat on the settee. His clothes were un-ironed. He had stubble on his face. Mycroft handed him a drink and took a seat beside him. He put his glass on the table, unable to bring himself to drink it. He needed to be sober for this. Whatever this turned out to be.

“You have done extraordinary work,” he said. "I’m sure the courts will recognise it, when we get to that stage. You always did far more for Sherlock than he ever deserved.”

“And where were you?” Greg hissed at him. “Where were you when I was trying to clear his name?”

“I felt it was important for you to do the work yourself. I did what I thought was best.” Mycroft glanced at him. “And look how wonderfully you’ve done.”

Greg slammed his glass down on the table. “How about you asking me what was best?” Greg stood up, his eyes blazing with anger. “Rather than going behind my back and saving my career, why didn’t you just tell me what the hell you were doing? I know it was you!”

“Greg. It isn’t me you are angry with,” Mycroft murmured.

“Isn’t it? Because I feel pretty angry with you right now.”

“I was certain you would reject my help,” Mycroft said.

“I have been in hell for the past seven months. Just a note to say ‘I’ve got your back’ would have been nice.”

Mycroft shook his head defensively. “I have always, as you say, had your back.”

“I don’t believe you,” Greg spat out at him, shaking his head, his hands in fists at his sides. “I think when Sherlock died you didn’t care what happened to me.”

He’s been so alone, Anthea had said. And he had. Mycroft knew it. He’d done just what everyone else in Greg’s life had left. Left him.

“I never abandoned you,” Mycroft tried to explain, but he knew his words must have sounded so hollow. He stood up. “I put in some words with your superiors, yes. To save your career. As you deserved. But you needed to clear Sherlock’s name for yourself.”

“You didn’t give a fuck about me,” Greg snapped. “Don’t pretend you cared now. It’s too late.”

“On this occasion, you are very much mistaken,” Mycroft said. “It is not that I didn’t care.” His heart pounded. If he didn’t say it all, get it out, he never would… but oh, he feared it. If he could take it all back, all the pain he’d caused him, he would, if he could be better a better man then he would give and do anything. “In reality, I cared too much.”

“I don’t believe you,” Greg whispered, his bottom lip shaking as he pointed accusingly at Mycroft. “Seven months. I have been on my own for seven whole bloody months!”

Mycroft shook his head. “No.”

“Don’t just say ‘no’! Don’t dismiss it. Don’t treat me like I’m fucking stupid.”

“I never have.” Mycroft took a small step towards him, and Greg took a step back. Greg had tears in his eyes. And Mycroft hated himself for it. He should have reached out to him sooner. He should have told him, told him he wasn’t to blame for any of this. “Greg,” he whispered, reaching out to him with his hand. Greg flinched and looked away. “It’s not your fault he died,” Mycroft promised him.

And Greg turned to him. He didn’t believe those words. Realisation dawned on Mycroft. All that time. Greg believed he’d done this. Forced Sherlock off the building. That he’d led Sherlock to his suicide. Greg’s shoulders shook as the first tear spilled from his eye, his bottom lip shaking.

Fearing rejection, Mycroft walked straight over to him and placed his hands on Greg’s shoulders. Greg had always been so good at comforting him. He knew what to do, what to say. And Mycroft could never do the same.

Mycroft swallowed, his heart aching for him. This man in front of him was so _good_. He deserved so much more than all of this.

“You didn’t kill him, Greg,” Mycroft promised him, his words sounding full of emotion in his own head. But now was not the time to feel his own pain. It was Greg. It was always about Greg. “It’s not your fault.” Greg weakly tried to push him away, but Mycroft stayed standing still, his hands still on Greg’s shoulders. Seconds felt like minutes. And Mycroft took a long breath, full of so many regrets. “And I cared, Greg,” he finally murmured, full of fear at finally letting it out. “I should have told you that.”

He took a step forward, and wrapped his arms around Greg’s neck. He swallowed as he caught Greg’s scent, that cedar and coffee and cigarettes. So familiar. Like something out of a dream. Greg stayed stiff in his arms. But Mycroft kept him close.

He closed his eyes, so conscious of the beating of his heart. He’d let Greg down. Of all the people in his life, all those he’d ever known, he loved Greg the most. And he’d let him down the most too. He should have done everything so differently. If he hadn’t always been so afraid, if he had been more honest, if he hadn’t been so fixated on needing to control everything. God, if he hadn’t felt the need to keep his stupid job and cause people to hate him so much they wanted to kill him… Well, he wouldn’t have been himself if he’d done all those things.

And that was just the reason why Greg deserved better. But Mycroft was inherently selfish. He couldn’t give him up, or let him go. Moriarty had been right. He’d kept Greg on a string. Left him dangling, knowing the connection between them had never gone away.

And for all those things… And for loving him… And for wanting him so much, he was so, so sorry. “I apologise,” he whispered into Greg’s ear, squeezing his eyes shut.

Greg’s whole body crumpled against his. He let out a desperate sob, his fingers curling into Mycroft’s jacket. A single tear fell down Mycroft’s cheek. He wiped it away. He held Greg even tighter, rubbing his back, trying to soothe him.

And Greg just cried. Mycroft could feel his tears, damp against his neck. Greg fought to catch his breath, but it seemed he couldn’t stop crying now he’d started. Mycroft lifted his hand, curling it around the back of Greg’s head.

He was so sorry. So sorry. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he mouthed, knowing Greg couldn’t hear him. God, what had he done? What the hell had he done?

Of every decision he’d ever made, this was the worst. To abandon him as he had. To have left him alone, without anyone he was close to. How could he ever thought they were stronger apart than they were together?

Mycroft let out a surprised sound in his throat as he felt Greg’s knees buckle. Mycroft went down to the floor with him, his knee aching as he went. But he just held him. He opened his eyes and blinked back the tears in his eyes. Greg continued to sob, but they became quieter, less desperate.

Greg continued to cling to him, even as the tears appeared to subside. And Mycroft couldn’t bear to move, even though his knee hurt so much. He’d kneel like this for all eternity if that was what it took. He knew he’d withstand anything for Greg, just to see him smile again, just once more.

“I miss the stupid bastard so much,” Greg said, his voice thick with emotion. Mycroft nodded. God, he did too. And Sherlock wasn’t even dead but he missed him, because the threat was so real. He knew they could still lose him any minute.

Greg pulled back, wiping his face with his hands. “Sorry about the…” Greg mumbled, looking at the damp mark on Mycroft’s jacket.

Mycroft kept his hands on Greg’s shoulder’s, unable to let him go. “Not at all,” he replied softly.

Greg’s bloodshot eyes lifted to meet his. Mycroft saw something different in them from the emptiness of before. Fear. Confusion. Dilated pupils. Greg began to pull back, but Mycroft reached for him, touching his cheek.

The world around them evaporated. And he knew he shouldn’t. He needed to let Greg go, to let him live his life in peace. But he couldn’t bear it anymore. He was so alone himself. He couldn’t stand being in any room on the entire planet anymore, because every single one of them felt desolate. Every room was an endless black hole, filling him with utter despair and he hadn’t even fully recognised it until now, when he had Greg there, just there, so utterly perfect.

Mycroft tilted his head a little. Greg didn’t retreat. He knew he shouldn’t. But when their lips touched, just so lightly, it felt like someone had filled him with warmth. As though nothing else could be more right. Greg responded to the light touch, moving his lips just a little. They broke apart, millimetres of space between them. They met in another, oh so hesitant kiss. And another. The merest brush of lips against lips.

Their eyes met. Mycroft swallowed. Greg curled his hands in the front of Mycroft’s shirt and yanked him close, their mouths slamming together. Mycroft let out a desperate sound as he searched out Greg’s mouth, losing himself in the bruising kiss. Their tongues flicked together. Greg was insistent, searching, pulling Mycroft closer.

And as soon as it started, it stopped in an instant. Mycroft stared at him, trying to catch his breath. Greg’s eyes widened. He rose to his feet. Mycroft squeezed his eyes shut. He’d done this all wrong. It was too soon. He was so stupid. How could he ever believe they could make this right with a single kiss?

He got to his feet. He turned round to Greg, who was staring at the door, as though he was planning to leave. Mycroft couldn’t find the words to beg him to stay. He reached for him instead, lightly touching his shoulder. Greg just stared past him.

“I cannot find the words to express how truly sorry I am,” Mycroft managed, gazing at him.

Greg shook his head and Mycroft dropped his hand. “You have no right,” Greg whispered. “No right to kiss me. You can’t just… You can’t play me like this.”

“Who said anything about it being a game?”

“It was always a game to you. Both of you. And you both lost. We all lost.”

Mycroft swallowed. Yes. Greg was right on that score. All of those scores.

“I lost everything,” Greg said. Mycroft nodded once, silently retreating to another chair. He stared down at his knees. They’d all lost so much. They played a game thinking they could win and they never could. They’d been dealing with a maniac, how could they ever have won? And look at them. They were all so broken.

“What?” Greg demanded. “Can’t handle the truth?”

Mycroft looked at him. “There are always risks in everything. From the moment Moriarty entered our lives, we gambled. Everyone gambled. You did too.”

“I never had a choice in anything I did! I did what you said because I thought you knew best. And then you turn up out of the blue and tell me how great I am because I wrote a hundred pages of truths everyone should know anyway? And then, on top of all of that, you kiss me. Like I should just forgive and forget because, what? You’re feeling a bit lonely? Missing having Sherlock to play with, so you thought you’d have a quick fuck for old time’s sake?”

“Greg-”

“-You have no idea, do you?” Greg snapped. “You’re a genius, Mycroft. But you have absolutely no idea of anything I’m feeling because you don’t feel anything. You have no bloody clue of the epic mistakes you’ve made down the line-”

“-You’re right.”

“-And you just pick people up and pretend, and… y’what? Did you just say I’m right?”

“Yes,” Mycroft said.

“What bit was I right about?”

Mycroft swallowed. “That I made a mistake.”

“What mistake?” Greg bit out.

“Where should I begin?”

“Why don’t you start with the very worst, hey? Don’t beat about the bush.”

Letting you go was the biggest mistake and I… but he wasn’t saying the words. He wasn’t saying them aloud because the fear was there. How could he make himself so vulnerable, knowing Greg would leave anyway, knowing he would take every piece of Mycroft’s heart with him?

“You and Sherlock," Greg muttered as moved to pick his coat up from the chair. “Never admit when you do something wrong.”

“January 6th, 2007,” Mycroft said quickly.

“What?” Greg asked.

“The day I made the greatest mistake of my life.”

“I don’t… I don’t follow. What did you do?”

Mycroft bit his lip. “I ended our relationship,” he finally said.

“On January 6th? In 2007? You… that’s the day when you broke up with me?”

“Yes.”

Mycroft stared at his back, holding his breath. Greg turned slowly to face him. Mycroft tried to mask the fear he felt, but he knew he couldn’t hide it any longer. Any strength he’d had had all evaporated. Greg sunk onto the settee.

They were still worlds apart. Mycroft felt it. Here was Greg, so vulnerable, he’d left himself so open. Mycroft glanced down at himself. He wore his armour. To be the ice man, to be nothing more than a machine. But for Greg, he knew he would have to be more than that. To show he could open his heart. He unbuttoned his jacket and draped it over the chair. He had to prove it, that this was what he wanted. If Greg would only have him, one day, perhaps.

He took off his waistcoat and then his tie. He undid the top button of his shirt and took off his cufflinks, rolling his sleeves up.

He was just a man, the same as Greg. Whatever intelligence he had, it was meaningless. What mattered was the love between them, and it was that and that alone which gave Mycroft the strength to walk towards Greg. He sunk down to his knees in front of him. He reached out and took Greg’s warm hands in his own.

This man, this wonderful man. Mycroft knew he’d broken him. He’d done him so wrong, so many times. But no more. Whatever it took, he would try to repair him. Try to make it better.

He held Greg’s eyes. “You are the kindest, most loyal, most wonderful human being I have ever known. And none of this has ever been your fault.”

Greg shook his head. “No,” he whispered.

“Yes. Look at me.”

Mycroft squeezed his hands. “You have never, ever been on your own in all the years I have had the great honour of knowing you.” He swallowed. “And you never will be.”

“Mycroft,” Greg whispered, letting out a shaky breath. He leaned forward, their foreheads touching.

Mycroft closed his eyes, rubbing his thumbs against Greg’s hands. He wanted this for the rest of his life.

He knew it then.

He’d known it before, known it all along but he’d never accepted it.

That Greg made him whole. He brought light to his life. Brought him laughter, where he didn’t get it anywhere else. Brought him support, and so much warmth.

Greg sat back in the chair. “Get up here,” Greg murmured.

Mycroft squeezed his hand and stood up. His right knee cracked. Greg let out a small laugh. A small smile broke out on Mycroft’s face as he took a seat beside him.

Greg rested his head on Mycroft’s shoulder. Mycroft let his fingers stroke through Greg’s grey hair, resting his cheek against his head. Words weren’t necessary. He made a-living out of words. But Greg had always understood him, without him ever needing to say a single thing.

Greg swung his legs over Mycroft’s lap and Mycroft wrapped his arms around him, keeping him close.

“Can I stay?” Greg asked after a long while.

Mycroft blinked. Oh. It was late, he supposed. “Of course.” He glanced at the spare room. “I may need to make up the bed-”

“-No,” Greg said. “With you.”

Mycroft felt his breath catch. “Yes,” he whispered, disbelieving. “Yes, of course.”

He took Greg’s hand. They looked at each other and Greg nodded once. Mycroft led him from the living room to his bedroom. He felt the weight of what this meant in every step. There was so little trust between them, he thought. He knew he had single-handedly destroyed everything good there ever had been between them.

But here was Greg. In his room. It was more than Mycroft could believe. Mycroft stood by the dresser, unfastening his trousers and then his shirt with shaking hands.

When he turned around, Greg was already under the covers on his side, as close as he could be to the edge without falling out. Swallowing, Mycroft slid in beside him, giving him space. He rested his head on the pillow, staring at the back of Greg’s head. He longed to reach for him, but stayed still, waiting.

“Hang on,” Greg said, his voice soft. “Just. Before we do this and can’t go back on it tomorrow morning. We’re just sleeping, yeah? We’re just… comforting and…”

“If that’s what you want.”

Greg sighed. “You never wanted what I wanted.”

Mycroft frowned. “You’re wrong," he replied gently.

Greg turned to face him, biting his lip. “Back then, you said it was sex and just… being physical with each other, yeah? And that was good. But I can’t do that again.”

“Nor can I,” Mycroft murmured. “Do you honestly think I would allow just anyone to come and lie here with me? How many people do you think have shared my bed since you, Greg?”

“I dunno.”

“No one.”

Greg stared at him. “No one?”

“No.”

“What do you want from me?” Greg whispered.

Mycroft shook his head. No, he thought. No, this wasn’t about wanting something from anyone. “I don’t want anything from you. I don’t deserve anything from you.”

“Right now? Mycroft. Come on. What do you want?”

What did he want? He wanted to hold him. To tell him over and over that they could make it right. To show him that he loved him so much. “I wish I could kiss you,” he finally whispered, fear so close to taking him over.

“Yeah. Yeah, God, yeah,” Greg breathed out, reaching for Mycroft’s cheek. Greg made the first move. He pressed small, gentle kisses around Mycroft’s mouth. Mycroft felt himself relax. They would just take it slow. They shared such small kisses, undemanding, just savouring the little touches, they had both been so deprived of.

They nudged their noses together. They both smiled. Mycroft kissed the corner of Greg’s mouth, and Greg responded in kind, letting out little reassuring hums of approval with every kiss. Until the kisses became lazy. Sleepy. Mycroft opened his eyes, a soft smile on his face as he watched the way Greg’s eyes fell closed.

He rolled onto his back and held his arms out to Greg. Greg rested his cheek on Mycroft’s chest, and Mycroft began to stroke his hair. “Stay,” Mycroft whispered.

Greg nodded against his chest. Mycroft reached over and turned the light off. He listened as Greg’s breathing evened out. He kissed the top of his head. He allowed himself a small smile, a disbelieving shake of the head.

How were they here? How was Greg here, with him? But he closed his eyes and found himself beginning to drift off. He was about to fall asleep with Greg in his arms.

And his head was empty of any thought besides that. That was all that mattered.

Finding peace for the first time in years, Mycroft fell asleep not fearing what the morning would bring. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was originally two and I was going to post them both tonight because I can't bear to post another uber sad chapter. But then I thought screw it, and posted the whole thing. I think it works as one chapter anyway. And god, I needed the last part by the end!


	56. Reconciliation

**January 2012.**

**Location: Crusader House, Pall Mall, London.**

He woke with a sense of foreboding. A lingering thought that something had gone horribly wrong. But as he opened his eyes, he caught sight of Greg lying beside him, his head on Mycroft’s pillow, lips parted a fraction, soft snores emitting from him.

Mycroft closed his eyes for a moment then opened them again. He couldn’t believe it wasn’t a dream. He went over everything from the previous night in his head, recalling their words, their actions. Their kisses.

He reached out towards Greg’s cheek, as though to brush the backs of his fingers against it. He stopped short of it, not wanting to wake him. He lay still, on his side, just watching him breathe.

He couldn’t fully relax. He knew Greg hadn’t had anything more than a glass of whiskey that night, but emotions had run high. He was sure there was still a big chance Greg would wake up and regret everything. Perhaps he would say they could try again, further down the line. But Mycroft couldn’t bear the thought of having this, feeling this… only to watch it leave.

Eventually he slid out of bed to use the bathroom, tiptoeing quietly into the en-suite.

When he walked back to the bedroom, Greg had rolled completely onto Mycroft’s pillow. He smiled to himself and slid in behind him, lying on the cool part of the mattress. He pressed his chest against Greg’s back, knowing the dark room would keep their secrets. If Greg was going to change his mind, he would wait until the sun rose to do it.

Greg took hold of his hand, stroking his fingers against Mycroft’s. Mycroft closed his eyes, promising himself he wouldn’t fall asleep. When the sun rose, he was certain he would lose this.

“What’s time?” Greg mumbled.

“Just gone 6.30am.”

“’Member the last time we did this?”

How could he ever forget? The one and only time they had slept together and they’d woken up and enjoyed what could only be described as the perfect day. “Yes.”

“Too long, Mycroft.”

Mycroft kissed the back of his neck. “Go back to sleep, Greg.”

“Will you be here?”

“I’m not going anywhere,” he promised. They stayed still for a few minutes, Mycroft fully awake but content to lie there with him.

Greg turned around, their feet touching under the covers. His fingertips pressed to Mycroft’s lips. Mycroft swallowed and watched him, as the tip of his index finger stroked the outline of his bottom lip. And then Greg kissed him.

He had wanted this for five years, and a single kiss took his breath away. He met each one of Greg’s tender kisses, resting his hand on his hip. He treated it as though every touch of their lips would be the last. Greg would come to his senses. Remember all the terrible things Mycroft had done to him. Leaving him alone, more than once. Pushing him away. Pretending he didn’t care.

Because Greg had never known why Mycroft had done those things, and so how could he possibly forgive them? Greg, who hadn’t known his birth parents until he was more than 50 years old. Greg, who had never felt good enough. Who had always wondered where he belonged. Mycroft knew he belonged with Greg, but he had only ever brought Greg pain so how could he expect that to be returned?

And yet still they kissed, soft and slow, only touching where Mycroft’s hand rested on Greg’s waist and where Greg’s fingers lay soft against his cheek.

Mycroft swallowed as Greg pulled back. He opened his eyes, expecting to see regret in Greg’s expression, but Greg only touched Mycroft’s lips with the tip of his finger, tracing the outline of them. “I have questions,” Greg said softly. Mycroft braced himself for them. He knew the conversation was inevitable. “Can we skip them for a bit? Because I.” Greg let out a soft sigh. “God, I want you so badly.”

And Mycroft wanted him too. To be able to touch him everywhere, to be felt everywhere in return. To be so wrapped up in him that the world melted away. But when the sun rose, when the harsh light of day brought everything into focus, how could Greg ever stay? And if he stayed to talk, to ask all the questions he had, he would surely leave when he heard the answers. No matter how much Mycroft had acted out of love, he had knowingly and consciously abandoned Greg over and over.

“I can’t,” Mycroft whispered, his voice full of regret. If he had everything now, how could he ever stand to watch it fade away later?

“Can’t what?”

“Greg, if we do this…” Mycroft swallowed back the lump in his throat. “I don’t believe I will ever be able to let you go.”

A few seconds of silence passed. Mycroft began to move away, but Greg followed, pressing their foreheads together. Greg’s hand rested on his arm, holding him still.

“You said you cared for me?” Greg asked. “Mycroft, I don’t know exactly what that meant, or what you feel about me. You don’t need to let me go. You can… you can have me however you want me.” Mycroft stared at him. “Whatever it means, I-”

Mycroft dipped his head and kissed him to cut his words off. He was too weak to say no after all this time. They pressed closer together, kissing softly, hesitantly. And then they deepened it, desire bubbling between them, threatening to take them over completely.

“Oh God,” Greg gasped.

“Greg,” Mycroft whispered in response, kissing him harder until Greg pulled back to drop little kisses over his face and down his neck. Mycroft tried to capture his lips again, but Greg just kept peppering little pecks over his skin.

Finally, Greg’s lips touched his again. Mycroft leaned in, ready to deepen it. “I forgive you,” Greg whispered against his mouth instead. Mycroft opened his eyes, his chest tightening. It was so much more than he deserved. Forgiveness. For Greg to offer it to him. He’d longed for it, but knew he could never have it. The things he’d done were surely unforgivable. “Whatever you think you did,” Greg continued. “I forgive you.”

Mycroft couldn’t find a response. How could he ever express just how much he needed to hear that? So he kissed him instead, giving in to his own desperation to have him close. Greg gripped onto him, his fingers digging into Mycroft’s back and he rocked his hips up against him. Mycroft pushed Greg onto his back, kissing his neck, savouring every soft sound Greg let out in response.

He felt desired, in the way Greg’s hands moved over his back. His skin felt more sensitive to touch than it ever had been. He’d been so deprived of even the smallest of touches, he had forgotten how it felt. To be craved by another human being. To be an object of someone’s desire.

Greg urged Mycroft up to kiss him and Mycroft couldn’t help but oblige. He wanted Greg in every way it was possible to have him. He wanted his friend back. He wanted his lover back. He had carried Greg inside his heart for all those years. Greg had touched every part of Mycroft’s life, spreading his warmth. He made Mycroft feel alive.

And he needed him. He needed him in every single way. To be his emotional connection to the world. To provide the physical contact he was so lacking. To be his confidant, his partner, his heart.

And he needed to feel him inside him, to know what it was like to have Greg’s cock pressing inside, to give everything up to him.

“I need you,” Mycroft whispered, willing to offer Greg everything. To lower his defences, once and for all, to let him in. “I need you.”

“Need me?” Greg whispered back.

Mycroft cupped his cheek, gazing down at Greg’s face. Greg took hold of his hand, kissing his fingertips. “It’s alright,” Greg murmured. “Everything is alright.”

And it felt that way. It seemed as though everything made sense. Mycroft opened the drawer and found his little box, taking out the lubricant and a condom. He pressed them into Greg’s hand.

“You want me to… in you?” Greg asked. Mycroft nodded into Greg’s neck. “That’s perfect,” Greg whispered. “It’s what I want. Look at me.” Mycroft lifted his head. Greg kissed him. “Don’t be scared. I have you.”

Greg gently eased Mycroft down onto his back, beginning to kiss down his neck. Even after all that time, Greg still knew how to unravel him. How to make him feel alive.

“Please,” Mycroft whispered, not sure he could wait any longer without feeling Greg inside him. He was already in his heart, in his head, taking over every inch of him.

Greg pulled Mycroft’s boxers down, kissing over his hips and then his cock. Mycroft’s mouth dropped open as Greg took his length into his mouth. His body shook, his thighs tensing at the intensity of the pleasure he felt. He had to focus on counting down from 20, determined not to come too soon.

Greg slicked up his fingers, and Mycroft spread his legs for him, swallowing back the anxiety edging into his consciousness. Even if it felt odd, even if it took some time to get used to the sensation again, he knew Greg would be careful with him. He trusted him.

Greg lifted his mouth and kissed over Mycroft’s thigh. “Mycroft?”

“Yes?”

“Did you… anyone else at all after…”

“No,” Mycroft murmured. “No, it was always just you.”

A finger circled Mycroft’s hole, and he forced himself to relax. Greg took Mycroft’s cock back in his mouth, slipping his finger inside. They grasped one another’s hands.

And Mycroft felt at ease. Soothed. His mind was blank of everything, except the knowledge Greg was there with him. Whatever was still to come, he had Greg with him now. Mycroft gasped as Greg moved his finger inside him. It had been years, so many years, since he had done this with anyone. But his body seemed to remember.

“More,” Mycroft urged, biting down on his lip as Greg pushed two fingers inside him.

“I’ve got you,” Greg whispered. “I have you.” Mycroft remembered to breathe, to push down a little. And it felt so much better after that.

“Greg.”

“Yep?”

Mycroft let out a shaky breath. “I’ve got you too,” he promised.

“I know,” Greg whispered. He spread his fingers and Mycroft arched up, letting out a soft sound, overawed by the sensations.

He held his breath as Greg began to ease in a third finger. Greg squeezed his hand, a reminder that he was with him, and Mycroft settled again.

“I need you,” Mycroft said again. “Please.”

He watched Greg through the darkness as he slid his fingers out and took hold of the condom. Mycroft saw his hands tremble as he fumbled with the foil. Mycroft took the condom from him. “Come here,” he said, guiding him into a kiss. Greg pulled his boxers off, and Mycroft held his eyes as he slid the condom onto his hard cock, hardly able to believe that they were going to be so close again.

All those times he had said it had been just sex. It had never been just sex between them. How could it possibly have been, when they clearly both needed each other so much all along?

Greg slid a pillow under Mycroft’s hips, and Mycroft wrapped his legs around Greg’s waist. He let out a long breath, gazing up into Greg’s eyes, licking his lips as Greg’s cock pressed against his hole.

Their lips brushed together at the same moment Greg pressed the head of his cock inside. Their eyes met, and Mycroft was certain their expressions were exactly the same, the mix of pleasure and molten desire.

Greg kissed over Mycroft’s cheeks, his jaw and then his lips, pressing inside, inch by inch. Greg let out a soft groan as he pushed inside completely. Mycroft stroked his neck with his fingers, caressing his cheek. He was sure they couldn’t be closer than this. The connection between them was stronger than ever. Like two opposite sides of a magnet, attracted, and difficult to force apart once together.

Mycroft nodded his head once and Greg rolled his hips. Mycroft let his instincts carry him as he let out a soft groan. Greg repeated the motion, and it felt so right. He felt Greg everywhere.

They kissed with a renewed desperation, tongues flicking together, Greg’s teeth gently pulling at Mycroft’s bottom lip. “Oh God, Mycroft,” Greg muttered, beginning to thrust into him. Mycroft let out a moan as Greg’s cock pressed against his prostate, setting every nerve alight. “Fuck, that noise was perfect,” Greg panted out. “Oh that sound… that sound, fuck me, you feel so good…”

Mycroft moved with him, gasping and writhing, wishing it would never end, wishing he could feel this forever because nothing had ever felt so perfect. Greg took Mycroft’s cock in his hand, and Mycroft dug his fingers into Greg’s back, urging him to thrust harder, faster, more. Just more.

Even in the darkness, he could make out Greg’s flushed cheeks, the thin line of perspiration on his forehead, his wet lips, his eyes wide. He was beautiful. And Mycroft was his. He would always be his, whether Greg wanted him or not. But here, just here, they had one another.

Greg was inside him. And for that moment, he had Greg, even if he would lose him afterwards, he would always have this to cling to. That moment where they were fully connected, two halves of the same whole. Two people, full of flaws and imperfections, but together in every sense of the word.

He didn’t want it to end. But he felt his climax catching up with him, his nerves on fire, pleasure radiating through to the tips of his fingers and down to his toes. He arched up and came, shuddering, overwhelmed.

He felt Greg’s hips stutter, and he held onto him as Greg came with him, letting out a desperate moan. Greg lay down on top of him, panting hard. Mycroft wrapped his arms around him, unwilling to let him go, even when he got too heavy and Mycroft’s come smeared between their stomachs.

Mycroft kissed over his shoulder, catching his own breath. He kissed the top of Greg’s head, relaxing his grip on Greg, but still keeping him close. He sighed as Greg eased out of him, rolling onto his side and sitting up on the side of the bed. Mycroft sat up too, resting against Greg’s back with his chin on Greg’s shoulder. Greg passed the tissues to him and Mycroft cleaned himself up.

He bit his lip, unsure of what would happen next. The sun was coming up. And they couldn’t pretend what had just happened was simply passion in the night.

But Greg turned to him and smiled, his eyes lighting up. Mycroft couldn’t help but smile in return, beginning to relax again. He kissed Greg, before leaving to use the bathroom.

He put his dressing gown on, staring at his flushed cheeks as he washed his hands. When he walked back into the bedroom, he found Greg with a lazy smile on his face.

“I just need the loo,” Greg told him. “And then we can go back to sleep. You’re not working tomorrow are you?”

“I’ll make the arrangements,” Mycroft agreed, hanging the dressing gown up. He got back into bed as Greg left the room. He reached for his phone and text Anthea.

 

MESSAGES  
7.04am: I won’t be at work today.  
Please contact me only in the case  
of emergency. M.

 

MESSAGES Anthea Fortier  
7.05am: Yes, boss. Shall I assume  
you have good news?

 

Mycroft rolled his eyes, putting his phone down on the side. He smiled as Greg walked back into the room, completely and unashamedly naked. He had lost some weight, Mycroft noted. A little more than Mycroft would have liked. He still looked exhausted and overworked, but he seemed relaxed at least.

Mycroft rested his head on Greg’s chest, content as Greg held him close. He didn’t even consider fighting sleep. He only wanted to remain in Greg’s arms for the rest of his life.

* * *

He woke feeling rested. He lay at Greg’s side, studying the other man’s face as he slept. He had a few more wrinkles. And none of them had come from smiling. He looked older. Events had taken his toll on him.

He closed his eyes, deciding to enjoy resting with Greg rather than spend the whole time worrying. He wrapped his arm over Greg’s waist.

But he was worried.

He was so worried he felt like he could hardly breathe. This was all he wanted. He had a feeling he would give up everything to keep Greg, if that was what he needed to do. And that terrified him. Because he was still sure that in a little while, he may have to give up Greg forever. He didn’t know with any certainty that Greg felt the same way about him as he did.

And why should he? After everything Mycroft had done to him, there was absolutely no reason for Greg to care about him at all.

“You alright?” Greg asked, his voice soft.

“Fine,” Mycroft replied, opening his eyes. Greg shuffled closer, stroking Mycroft’s cheek. Mycroft let his eyes fall closed and leaned into his touch, savouring it, trying to store the memory in his head so he would always be able to recall how it felt.

He reached out to Greg, but it struck him how Greg wasn’t his to reach out to. It wasn’t up to him to try to claim him. It was in Greg’s hands now, and Greg’s alone. He let his hand drop between them.

He frowned a little as Greg took hold of his hand, lifting it from the covers and placing it on his chest. Mycroft opened his eyes, feeling the steady beat of Greg’s heart beneath his palm. He lifted his eyes to meet Greg’s, hesitant, unsure.

“We’re doing this, right?” Greg asked, his voice so quiet Mycroft would have struggled to hear him if there had been any other sound beside their breathing. “You and me. We’re doing this. We’re not fucking around this time.”

Mycroft watched him. He hardly dared to breathe. He could scarcely believe what Greg was saying. That they were doing… this? The two of them. Together. That it wasn’t just a night, that it could be more, that Mycroft could belong to Greg and Greg would be his in turn. It was all he had ever dreamt of, and he couldn’t find the words to express it.

He held Greg’s hand, guiding it from Greg’s chest to his own, covering his heart. He swallowed back the lump in his throat, biting his lip as Greg pressed their foreheads together. His heart was hammering in his chest, the knowledge that one wrong word could send Greg in the other direction, as far away from him as he could possibly get.

“Please say it,” Greg whispered.

Mycroft closed his eyes, trying to find the words. They were there, clear as day. I love you. But he was still so terrified of them, he couldn’t let them out. Though he loved him, he couldn’t promise to always do right by him. He couldn’t promise to give all the things Greg needed.

But he had to say something. To tell Greg that this was what he wanted. Being together was what he wanted. He opened his eyes to see Greg looking back at him, fear in his eyes.

“You have held my heart in your hands from the moment you wrapped Sherlock in a blanket and took him to your home because he was not safe to be around me or by himself,” Mycroft began to tell him. “The first morning we woke up beside each other was the happiest of my life. And the mistake I made in pushing you away is the greatest mistake I have ever made. So yes, Greg. Yes, we are doing this, if you’ll have me.”

Greg kissed his forehead and Mycroft squeezed his eyes shut, hardly able to believe it. “I’ll have you,” Greg whispered. He kissed Mycroft’s cheek and Mycroft looked at him again, holding onto words he never imagined he would hear. “I’ll have you.” Greg pulled back until they were looking at one another. “You know right? You _know_?”

Mycroft studied him for a moment. He looked fragile. Still afraid. And yet, hopeful, hopeful of a future they could have together.

“I know,” Mycroft said gently, kissing him. “I know.”

Greg pressed their foreheads together again, his hands holding onto Mycroft’s arms. Mycroft wrapped his arm around him, holding him close, stroking his hand against his back.

He thought back to the night he fell in love with him. That sudden realisation that he would give his life for Greg’s. That he would do anything for him. And yet he had never told him. Oh, he’d whispered it while Greg slept and told him so many times in his dreams. But Greg didn’t know, not really.

And if they were to have any hope of a future together, Mycroft knew he had to be more honest than that. So he pulled back. He looked at Greg, properly looked at him. He pushed away his fears. What else did he have to be scared of? He’d already lost everything once. But not again. He refused to allow that to happen again.

Greg was watching him with a curious expression, just waiting. Giving Mycroft space and time, just as he always had.

Mycroft’s chest felt tight. His mouth was dry. But this was Greg. And he thought of the tie pin, of falling asleep in Greg’s arms, of holding his hand through Covent Garden, of standing and watching the rain with him, laughing, watching Greg’s wonder as they looked at Dippy.

And here they were. Years on, still drawn to one another. And Mycroft couldn’t imagine living another day where he left those words unsaid.

And so he held Greg’s eyes, resolved. He took a deep breath. And then he said it. “I love you.”

Greg’s eyes widened, and then he pulled Mycroft into his arms, holding onto him tightly. Mycroft relaxed. As far as reactions went, that wasn’t a bad one. He let out a long breath. That was it, he thought. He’d said it and the world hadn’t fallen apart.

He licked his lips as Greg pulled back to look at him. “I love you,” Greg said, a half smile on his face. Mycroft stared at him for a moment and swallowed back his emotions, leaning forward to kiss him.

Greg loved him too.

And they were going to be together.

And it felt as though his life had been on pause for so many years, but now he was about to start living again. He could be better, he thought. Start again. Share his thoughts, fears, dreams with the person he cared about. Wake up beside him and fall asleep with him in his arms.

There was a lot left to say. But as Mycroft kissed Greg’s forehead, he knew they could get through it, if they were willing to try.

“I suppose we need to talk,” Mycroft told him.

“Yeah. But it’s still early and I think we should lie here for a bit longer. I think we’ve got a long day of talking ahead of us.”

“It worries me,” Mycroft admitted, frowning. “How at the end of the day you may hear what I’ve done and change your mind.”

“Don’t be stupid. Even the horrible things you’ve done to me have never been about hurting me. Have they?”

“No.”

“Well, that’s alright then. I’m not going anywhere.” Greg kissed him. “It’s okay now.”

Mycroft began to smile, rubbing his nose against Greg’s cheek. “Let me go and make us some coffee.”

Greg smiled. “Want a hand?”

“No, I want to return to bed with you still here.” He slid out of bed and put his dressing gown on. He looked over at Greg, who had his arms stretched over his head, looking completely at ease. Mycroft leaned down, caught himself, realising Greg really was his to kiss, and then dipped his head down to meet his lips with his own.

He let out a content sigh as he left the room, picking up his copy of The Times on the way. He made them each a coffee, leaning against the side. He caught himself smiling and he rolled his eyes to himself, and that just made him smile even more.

He carried the tray through to the bedroom and got back into bed beside him. Greg rested against his chest, and they each sipped their coffee, reading the headlines in the newspaper. They didn’t need to say anything, not yet. They could just enjoy the normalcy. The utter rightness.

Mycroft turned to the crossword, idly filling it in as Greg curled up around him, nuzzling Mycroft’s neck.

“I’m dying for a cigarette,” Greg finally said.

Mycroft kissed his cheek. “I’ll have a car collect you so you can get some clothes from home. I hoped you might come back and then…”

Greg smiled and kissed him. “I’ll be back. I’ll be really quick and then we can have breakfast.” They looked at one another. “I do love you,” Greg added.

Mycroft smiled, still overwhelmed by how those words sounded aloud. They were just words, but the weight behind them was impossible to quantify. “I love you,” he said in return, kissing him. “See you in around half an hour?”

Greg nodded, getting out of bed. Mycroft watched him get dressed out of the corner of his eye as he sent a quick text for one of his drivers to collect Greg.

He sighed as the front door closed, and he stayed in bed for another few minutes, staring at their two mugs on the side. Finally he left the bed, shaving and having a shower. He dressed in a comfortable shirt and trousers, wanting to look as relaxed as he felt. There was no need to put on a show, not anymore.

He went to the kitchen, putting some croissants in the oven. He walked around the flat in a bit of a daze. He washed up their glasses from the night before and put them on the side to dry. He straightened the cushions and put the newspaper on the side to read properly later. He frowned for a moment as he caught himself, realising he was acting very much like his father did. Arranging the house, as though that would make everything else better too.

He took the croissants out and began to butter them just as Greg joined him in the kitchen. He kissed him deeply, wrapping his arms around his neck. Greg hummed his approval, and they smiled, sharing another soft peck.

They held each other’s hands as they ate.

“Did you notice anything in the paper about the Millett trial?” Greg asked him.

“I don’t think so. Is it something you’re working on?”

“Mmm,” Greg said, wiping a crumb from Mycroft’s chin with his thumb. “He was meant to be offering a plea yesterday but I don’t know what came from it.”

“I’ll check later.”

“Cheers. Sorry. I don’t want to talk about work all the time.”

“We have a lot of catching up to do,” Mycroft said. “I’m not working today. So we have all the time we need.”

Greg grinned. “Great. Good. You okay?”

Mycroft nodded. “Yes, actually. Are you?”

“Yeah. I’m going to try to cut down on the smoking.”

“I don’t mind. I don’t mind the smell.”

“You’re still smoking right?”

“Yes, occasionally. Regrettably,” Mycroft added. “Not many. One or two a day, at most. None on a good day.”

They both got up, carrying their dishes to the sink. “You’ve always had a lot more self-control than me,” Greg said with a smile.

Mycroft gave him a quick kiss and began to do the washing up. “Old habits are easy to return to while you’re under stress.”

“Yeah. Been a lot of that.”

“We can talk about everything. Any questions you have…”

“Thank you.”

“Go and sit down. I’ll make us both a coffee.”

Greg smiled and kissed the side of Mycroft’s head, before wandering into the living room. Mycroft cleared the dishes away while he waited for the kettle to boil. He promised himself he would be completely honest, except when it came to Sherlock. There was nothing else he could do in that regard. But f they really were going to do this, he had to put the effort in.

He carried their drinks in and sat down on the settee. Greg had chosen a single chair, clearly trying to create a bit of distance between them so they could talk without getting distracted by kisses. Considering how long they’d gone without them, Mycroft had a feeling Greg had the right idea.

He opened his mouth, ready to get proceedings underway, but he wasn’t even sure where to begin.

“How are we going to do this?” Greg asked.

“I have no idea.”

“It’s just a conversation.”

“Potentially the most important conversation of my life.”

Greg raised his eyebrows. “You negotiate goodness knows what and this is the most important conversation of your life?”

“I have very little experience of this sort of conversation. I usually know the end result when negotiating.” Mycroft pursed his lips. “But this isn’t a negotiation.”

“No.”

“My instinct is to approach this in a very logical fashion. Perhaps chronologically, but I feel you’ll get swept up in the passion of the piece and destroy the order quite quickly.”

“But that’s a conversation, surely? It doesn’t have an order and it does weird things and goes to places you’re not expecting it to.”

“Yes. Therein lies my concern.”

“Ah.”

Mycroft frowned. “What if I forget to say something important?” he asked.

“Then you can say it when you remember it. Mycroft, you’re the king of conversations.”

“Not this kind.”

“Because it means something to you.”

“Quite right.”

Greg rubbed his face. “Do we need to make an agenda?” he joked.

Mycroft managed a smile. “You think I’m being ridiculous.”

“Yeah, I do. I hate this kind of talking too, remember? But we’ve got to do this.” Greg sighed, sitting back in the chair. “God, there’s just… there’s too bloody much, isn’t there? I mean, this goes back years.”

“I know.”

“Have you ever blamed me for Sherlock’s death?” Greg asked.

“No.”

“Did you go to the Yard to discuss getting my job back?”

“Yes. I had hoped it would have happened more quickly, they were taking too much time.”

“Right,” Greg muttered. “Right, so this is the first thing. What I don’t like is you went behind my back to get me my job back. Maybe I wouldn’t have been able to without you, I don’t know, but I wish you’d told me first.”

“It was all very complicated,” Mycroft told him. “We had completed the paperwork to clear Sherlock’s name and all I wanted to-”

“-Hold up, you’ve done paperwork to clear Sherlock’s name?”

Mycroft sighed, and rubbed his forehead. “In a manner of speaking.”

“Mycroft, I’ve been working for three months straight to gather that evidence, and you’re telling me it was already done before I even had my job back?”

“I contemplated giving it to you,” Mycroft told him.

“But you didn’t. Why?”

“Because you needed to do it yourself.”

“Have you given it to the Attorney General?” Greg asked.

“No.”

Greg stared at him. “So you’re willing to let Sherlock’s name continue to be slandered left, right and centre for even longer because you thought I’d - what? Blame myself for his death if I didn’t clear his name?”

“That’s the long and short of it, yes.”

“I already do blame myself, Mycroft! And clearing his name does not change a damned thing. He’s still dead and it’s still on me.”

Mycroft shook his head. “It is not on you,” he said. This was going to be more difficult than he has realised. He couldn’t tell Greg that Sherlock was alive, but Greg blamed himself for everything. And Mycroft knew without telling him the truth, he was always going to feel like that.

“How is it not on me?” Greg asked. “I let everyone think he was a criminal. I did just what Moriarty wanted, and in the end he killed himself over it. But Sherlock never did those things, he was not a fake and… I can’t believe you’d already done the paperwork.” Greg threw his hands up in the air. “God’s sake.”

“Anthea was ready to give it to you. It was all filed and ready to go to your office.”

“But?”

“I told her no.”

Greg shook his head. “You’re a controlling bastard sometimes, Mycroft. You can’t play people like this. You can’t play with people’s emotions, it’s not fair.”

“But look how much better you are for doing the work yourself.”

“Better? Better?” Greg let out a bitter laugh. “Mycroft, I’m a fucking mess. I am not better.”

“Greg-”

“Don’t.” Greg pointed at him. “You did this to me. So, you deserve to hear it. You abandoned me. You made me feel like you blamed me Sherlock’s death. Until yesterday, I was convinced you did. When you called me, you asked me how John was. After everything we have been to each other for the past seven years, you didn’t even ask how I was.”

Mycroft swallowed. “I couldn’t.”

“Couldn’t? You didn’t even have the decency to ask how I was? You absolute dickhead. You were right, Mycroft, I was wrong, I’m sorry. After everything you’re telling me, I am about to change my mind about us.”

“I was in love with you and you were not in love with me and I couldn’t bear to ask how much pain you were in because it would have broken my heart.”

“What heart?”

Mycroft stared at him, his chest tightening. He deserved that. He knew he did. And Greg had a point, because based on the evidence Mycroft had provided him with, what else could he think? Mycroft had acted that way intentionally. He’d been cold. He’d cut all ties with him. Of course Greg had to believe he hadn’t cared. It meant it had done his job right. But it killed him to hear it said aloud.

“You should never have left me,” Greg said, breaking the silence. “You build me up and break me every single time.”

“And you think I am far better than I am. So when I hurt you, you wonder how I could be so hateful. You don’t realise that is just how I am.”

“No it’s not,” Greg said. “You pretend it is. But I know how much you loved Sherlock and how much you tried to protect him. So, don’t act like you’re made of stone. Because I know that’s not true.”

Dangerous territory. Mycroft was still trying to pretend he didn’t care about his brother, and he had got so used to it that the words slipped out before he could stop them. “Sherlock was just useful to me.”

“Cut the bullshit, Mycroft! You loved him. You have spent your entire life trying to protect him. Why did you break up with me? When Sherlock had that overdose you left me.”

“Because I was emailed pictures of you entering and leaving your flat to collect some clothes from home. While Sherlock was at the hospital, your life was in danger because of me. You had already been hurt once when you were pushed into the Thames. And I wanted to protect you more than anything. And I left you because I was happy. And every time I have ever been happy in my life, Sherlock has almost died. I loved you Greg. I loved you even then. I couldn’t bear to see you in danger.”

“You loved me? Back then?”

“With my whole heart.”

“Why didn’t you…”

“I couldn’t.”

“Why?”

Mycroft looked down at his knees. “I don’t deserve your heart in return.”

“Mycroft, you have it,” Greg whispered. “You had it then. I was yours. Why don’t you see that? You had every single piece of me. And you left me. In that year you and me were… whatever the hell it was, I promised myself I would never tell you how I felt. Because you were so sure it wasn’t more than sex, it was just physical. Then we woke up together and everything changed. It changed, didn’t it? I wasn’t the only one who felt it.”

“Yes,” Mycroft managed to say.

“We woke up together and we spent the entire day like that was how we were going to spend the rest of our lives.”

“Yes.”

“I didn’t know I loved you then. Sherlock told me I did, when his flat exploded. I thought he was just being a prick, but then I realised he was right. He was always right, the dickhead.”

Mycroft smiled a little. Of course Sherlock had been the one to tell Greg. “Yes.”

“You have to give me something here, Mycroft.”

Mycroft bit his lip. “I fell in love with you the night Sherlock pinned me up against the wall and you intervened, do you remember? You pulled me towards you and no one had ever looked at me like that. And I wanted… I wanted to never let you leave my flat again. And when we had intercourse for the first time, I gave myself to you completely and utterly. I left myself open to you.”

“But after that - just months after that - you left.”

“I had to.”

“You deserve to be happy, Mycroft.”

Mycroft looked at him, not hiding anything anymore. “I cannot be that without you.”

“You were right about Sherlock,” Greg finally said. “I did need to clear his name myself. But you were wrong to ignore me. You just cut me out.”

“I apologise.”

“Mycroft, you know me better than anyone. I don’t know how, you just do. And you knew you pushing me away like that was the worst thing you could have done, but you still did it.” Mycroft hung his head, knowing Greg was right. “I don’t care why, you still upped and left. And it feels like you’ve done that more than once so if I’m worried it’ll happen again, I think I have a right to be.”

Mycroft nodded. “I understand.”

“And look, I’m no idiot. I know Moriarty being dead doesn’t mean this is all over. It’s too big right? A big terrorist network and someone else will step into his shoes.”

Mycroft looked up at him, frowning.

“And I know Moriarty wasn’t just about Sherlock,” Greg continued. “It was about you too. And that means I’m probably in danger or will be at some point. So I need you to promise me you will never leave me to protect me again. I mean it. If you can’t promise me that you will never push me away again, even if it’s to save my life, then I’m walking out of that door right now.”

Mycroft took a breath. There had been so many times he had made difficult decisions to save people’s lives. Pushing Greg away had been the worst, but Mycroft would do it again in a heartbeat if he had to. Greg had no idea what he was asking of him. “Even if I made that promise, I can never guarantee I could be entirely open with you.”

“That’s fine. I won’t ask about your work, Mycroft. Have you ever known me to pry?”

“No.”

“So I won’t ask, and you won’t have to lie,” Greg said. “But you have to promise me you won’t push me away again, whether it’s to save my life or not. I can’t handle that again.”

Mycroft looked at him, knowing Greg couldn’t appreciate how difficult those decisions had been because Mycroft had never told him. But not promising it meant letting go of Greg for good, based on a hypothetic set of circumstances. If it arose… he would simply have to do something different next time. “I promise,” he finally said.

“Thank you.”

“But there are secrets,” Mycroft warned him. “Ones I’m sure would mean you would never wish to speak to me again if you knew the truth.”

“I bet there are. But if this is your attempt to scare me off you can stop that right now. I’m not some naïve child. I know who you are, I know what you do for a-living. But strip all that away and just look at you and me. We get each other. We have brilliant chats, we love spending time together and there is no doubt in my mind that we’re completely compatible. So, yeah. I know there will be secrets. I know some of those secrets will involve me. But I can live with that. If you can live with my temper and the fact that I am no where near as tidy as you are, then I can live with it.”

Mycroft managed a half smile. “You are the most remarkable man.”

Greg smiled back. “I’m not really, but cheers for saying it.”

Mycroft glanced down at his knees and then back at him. The Sherlock question hovered over him. He knew it would for a long time to come. “Greg, there are things I wish I could tell you. And I can’t.”

“To protect me, right?”

Mycroft nodded. “And to protect others.”

“See, that’s what I mean. Protect me all you want. Whatever you have to do. Just don’t push me away again. Just…”

“I’ll never leave,” Mycroft promised. “I know you don’t believe that, but I will prove it to you.”

“Gonna take time, yeah? There’s too much shit between us to just have one conversation and sort it out.”

“I agree.”

Greg looked down at his knees. “The funeral. You shot me this look, it was pretty… well, it convinced me you blamed me. What was that about?”

“I shouldn’t have done that.”

“That wasn’t what I asked,” Greg said.

“Moriarty wanted to destroy Sherlock in every possible way. He had a put out a hit on you. I needed to act as though I was angry at you. One wrong move by me and that man would have had you killed, regardless of the fact Sherlock was no longer there. So I pretended I despised you.”

“Who was it?”

“He went by the name of Owen Sharratt.”

Greg stared at him. “Jesus Christ. The cop on my team?”

“You’re safe now.”

“Am I?”

“Yes. I promise.”

Mycroft watched as Greg got up from the chair, finally walking over to him, taking a seat beside him. Their thighs pressed together and Mycroft relaxed a little, knowing Greg wasn’t going to just leave.

As though to prove it, Greg kissed him slowly and Mycroft let it draw out, that one simple touch putting him at ease.

“I can’t believe I can kiss you,” Greg murmured against his mouth. “It doesn’t feel real. I think I’ll wake up in a minute.”

Mycroft kissed him again, stroking his knee. “If this is all a dream, I’d like to never wake up.”

Greg pressed their foreheads together. “Mycroft. I wish we didn’t waste all that time,” Greg murmured.

Mycroft reached for his hand, stroking his fingers. “Don’t.”

“It doesn’t matter. All that stuff. It doesn’t matter. If you want me then you’ve got me.”

Mycroft held his eyes. “Like I’ve never wanted anyone else.”

Greg closed his eyes for a second. “We’re just… just gonna have to start over, aren’t we? I’ll just have to learn to trust you again.”

“You’ve given me so many chances already.”

“You deserved it,” Greg told him. And Mycroft was certain he didn’t. But here Greg was, and he couldn’t bring himself to argue on that point. “Don’t leave me,” Greg suddenly said.

Mycroft felt his chest clench, knowing those words were a direct response to everything he had done to hurt him. All he could do was prove his sincerity, and that would only come with time. He hoped Greg could learn to trust him again. Forgive him. Though he was certain, whenever he learned the truth about Sherlock, it would surely mean the end for good. But he was absolutely certain they needed one another. And maybe, just maybe, if they built a relationship together, they could get to the point that they would get through anything.

“My grandfather was the greatest man I have ever known,” Mycroft told him. “Not necessarily the most intelligent. And he certainly drew no particular acclaim for his achievements throughout his life. But he went to war. And he carried on his back an injured man who remained by his side for the rest of their lives.” He looked down at the ring on his hand. “I have tried so very hard to not let my feelings in. Even with you, I pushed them aside. When my grandfather died, I was given his ring. I have worn it since I was 18 years old. And it reminds me, sometimes, that it is okay to have a heart.” He looked up at Greg. “Loving you all these years, when we have been apart, has felt at times like my greatest curse. But it has also been my greatest honour. I will never leave you. You don’t need to be afraid anymore.”

Greg rubbed his face. “God, I don’t know what to say.”

“You don’t need to say a word. Just kiss me.”

Their lips met in a slow kiss, Mycroft holding Greg’s face in his hands. Every day. When he could, he was going to do this every day. He gazed at Greg, caught up in him. He couldn’t even think of anything else. The world outside Crusader House simply didn’t exist. It didn’t even matter. Terrorists could activate their bombs and politicians could give the order for nuclear war, but Mycroft had Greg. And if there was chaos outside, he didn’t care. Not while he had this.

“What’s wrong?” Greg asked.

“Nothing at all,” Mycroft said, beginning to smile. “Not a single thing.”

A slow smile spread over Greg’s face and they kissed again, this time with a little more intent.

“Got all day, yeah?” Greg asked.

“We have.”

“Good.” Greg stood up, holding out his hand.

“We only got out of bed a few hours ago.”

Greg grinned. “Yeah, but how often are we going to have a whole day to ourselves, hey?”

“I don’t know,” Mycroft replied as he took Greg’s hand. “I’m planning on us having quite a few.”

“We’re really doing this.”

“We’re really doing this,” Mycroft agreed, looking up at him, squeezing his hand.

“Why aren’t you freaking out?” Greg asked. “You know. Emotions and feelings and all that stuff.”

“What’s the point? In pretending not to care, have I hurt any less? But love is a dangerous game, and I fear it’s one I won’t negotiate very well.”

“Yeah, but it’s worth it, right?”

“I never thought it could be.”

“But?”

Mycroft smiled softly. “What have you done to me?”

Greg squeezed his fingers. “Come to bed with me.”

“It would be my pleasure.” Mycroft stood up and rested his free hand on the side of Greg’s neck. “Though, I wasn’t sure we were done talking.”

“We’re not. But it doesn’t work like that. We could sit and talk all day, but we’d never cover it all. Some stuff we just have to get to when we get there.”

“Can you ever trust me again?”

Greg kissed him lightly. “I will. Give me some time.”

“I understand.”

They exchanged two sweet, chaste kisses. “What happens now?” Greg asked.

“In the immediate future or long-term?”

“Either.”

Mycroft stroked his thumb against Greg’s knuckles, considering. “I suspected sex was on the cards. Dinner. A film. More sex and falling asleep. And then Anthea will co-ordinate our days off so we can see each other as often as possible. I will empty a bedside cabinet, and you’ll bring round a toothbrush and some spare clothes. I will navigate this relationship, I suspect, like a child learning to walk and you will have to act as our guide.”

Greg laughed. “I’m no expert.”

“Then we’ll simply have to stumble along.”

“We did alright last time really,” Greg said. “Considering how much we denied we were in a relationship, I think we had a pretty good handle on it.”

Mycroft smiled. “No more questions this time though. We are a couple.”

Greg nuzzled Mycroft’s neck. “God. That sounds good.” Greg kissed Mycroft’s neck, right there on his most sensitive spot. Mycroft let out a pleased laugh, drawing him in for another kiss. He searched Greg’s mouth with his own, remembering all the ways Greg liked to be kissed, the grazing of teeth against lip, the flick of tongue against tongue.

Greg gripped Mycroft’s shirt and walked him backwards until he reached the wall. They stared at each other, before surging forward in another desperate kiss. Mycroft couldn’t get enough of him. He slid his hands under Greg’s t-shirt shirt, rubbing his fingers against his nipples, stroking his chest hair. He gripped his backside, pulling him tight against him.

Greg groaned into the kiss, and he fumbled with the buttons on Mycroft’s shirt. He stepped back and Mycroft walked into the bedroom. He turned to face Greg, who was already stripping his shirt off. He pushed Mycroft down onto the bed and immediately began to undress him, kissing the skin as he revealed it.

They rocked their hips, cocks pressing together through layers of clothing. Greg drew Mycroft’s nipple into his mouth, flicking his tongue against it.

He tugged Greg back up into another kiss, consumed by him, lost in him. He unfastened their trousers and Greg rolled off him to pull his off. Mycroft hastily pushed his trousers down with his boxers and straddled Greg’s hips, lowering himself down until their cocks pressed together.

Greg groaned into Mycroft’s mouth as they began to find a rhythm, panting into each other’s mouths. Greg gripped Mycroft’s backside, rubbing his finger against his sensitive hole. Mycroft gasped, wrapping his hand around their cocks, deepening the kiss.

They moved, frantic, desperate. “Oh God,” Greg groaned, arching up and biting Mycroft’s neck. “Yes, God, yeah.”

Mycroft hummed in agreement, unable to find the words as he kissed him again. His hips stuttered, and he breathed Greg’s name out.

Greg moaned, wrapping his legs tighter around Mycroft’s as he came between them, kissing him hard. Mycroft stroked his cock more firmly until he trembled, dropping his head to Greg’s kiss as he reached his own climax. He let out a shaky breath as Greg kissed all over his face.

Mycroft collapsed down beside him, closing his eyes and smiling. Greg passed him the tissues and he cleaned himself up, lying down on his side next to Greg.

They kissed lazily, savouring it. Greg’s phone beeped.

“Oh, the world can go to hell,” Greg muttered, rolling onto his side to retrieve his phone. Mycroft smiled, closing his eyes. “So, what’s the plan?” Greg asked after a few minutes.

Mycroft looked at him. “Plan?”

“Yeah. We’ve got all night, right? So, dinner?”

Mycroft rested his head on Greg’s chest. “Dinner. Yes. I suppose that should be on the cards really.”

Greg laughed and brushed his hand through Mycroft’s hair. “Believe it or not, we both have to move at some point.”

“Then I echo your sentiments. The world should go to hell.”

Greg laughed, holding Mycroft close. He sighed, resting with him, as his body cooled down. So much had changed in 24 hours. It was a blur. But here they were.

Eventually he got up to make some lunch. Greg joined him in the kitchen, sitting down at the table.

“What do you do on days off?” Greg asked him.

“Work,” Mycroft said, putting some potatoes in the oven. “My days off are usually spent here, but working anyway.”

“Do you have to though? Work?”

“No. Parliament does sleep, though not a lot. Matters of national security tend to be less predictable, but my office knows which matters require my attention and which don’t.”

Greg nodded. “So… when you have a day off like this, it really is a day off?”

Mycroft turned to him. “Yes, it is. No one can work every day.” He walked over to Greg and cupped his cheek. “You’re exhausted,” he said.

Greg shrugged. “I know I’ve been working hard but I wouldn’t say I was exhausted.”

“When did you last have a day off?”

“Today?”

“I thought as much.”

Greg sighed and rested his hand over Mycroft’s. “It was about Sherlock. I had to do it quickly.”

They took themselves to the living with their coffees, Greg stretching out across the settee as Mycroft knelt down to light the fire.

“Mycroft?” Greg asked from behind him.

“Mm?”

“What term do you like?”

Mycroft looked at him. “Term for what?”

“Boyfriends?” Mycroft pulled a face and Greg grinned. “Lovers?”

“Certainly not.”

“Squeeze?” Greg grinned.

“Good gracious, is that really what people call each other?”

Greg laughed. “My flame?”

“That sounds appalling.”

“My fancy man?”

“I refuse to sound like a prostitute.”

“Better half?”

“I wouldn’t believe for a single moment that I’m the better half in this relationship.”

“Partner?”

Mycroft paused. “Oh. Yes, partner.”

Greg smiled. “Not that it matters, but y’know… there’s got to be something nice in saying ‘I can’t go to the pub tonight, I’m spending time with my partner’.”

Mycroft turned back to the fire, watching as the wood lit up. “I wasn’t aware there were so many quandaries to negotiate at a start of a relationship.”

“There’s not,” Greg grinned. “But you’re the special sort. Are we a secret?”

“Not at all. We can go out tonight, if you want?”

“Hm. No, but thanks. I think I’d just like a quiet one with you.”

Mycroft nodded. “Me too. I will let Anthea know the moment I get into work on Monday. I’ll get a key cut for you.”

“Yeah?”

“Of course. My home is your home.”

“I’ll do the same then,” Greg said. “And then bring some shirts and boxers round. You might as well do the same, I’ll clear some space for you. Not that I guess you want to stay over at my place, but just in case…”

“I have no qualms about staying at your flat.”

“I only live five minutes away.”

“We don’t need to spend all our time here.”

“It’s nicer though,” Greg said. “I don’t mind to be honest. I’m going to have a look through your film collection. Got any preferences? Particular mood for anything?”

Mycroft settled down on the settee as Greg wandered into his office. “Whatever you like,” Mycroft called after him.

Whatever Greg liked turned out to be The Lord Of The Rings. Mycroft had bought the DVDs after Baskerville, determined to find a way to make it up to Greg after sending him there. But they had never had the chance. Events had gone so quickly after that.

He rested between Greg’s legs, his back against his chest as they watched the film. They had lunch and then continued to watch Frodo’s adventures from underneath a blanket.

They kissed occasionally, swapping positions to get comfortable. Greg held Mycroft’s hand and kissed his neck and stroked his hair.

“Dinner?” Mycroft finally asked as the credits began.

“I’ll help.”

They made the chili con carne together, and carried their plates through to the living room enjoy with a bottle of wine.

Feeling a little out of the loop, Mycroft turned the news on. He knew the stories only covered a fraction of what was actually going on in the world, but he liked catching up.

“Would you want to be an astronaut?” Greg asked as they watched a feature about a new probe going to Mars.

“Confined spaces,” Mycroft reminded him.

“Oh yeah. Well, if you weren’t claustrophobic?”

“I don’t think so. There’s enough happening on earth without worrying about outer space.”

Greg laughed. “Do you believe in aliens?”

Mycroft turned to him and laughed, reaching out to stroke Greg’s cheek. “I’m sure there are millions of species out there somewhere. I’m not sure they look anything like the creatures you’re imagining.”

“What am I imagining?”

Mycroft paused, considering what Greg would conjure up in his mind. He smiled. “Something green. With eight eyes.”

Greg burst out laughing, nudging his thigh with his foot. “Hey, I know they wouldn’t be green. There could be… I dunno. Like ET.”

“Mmm.”

“Or… or maybe they look like exactly like us. Could that happen?”

“I suppose so. But it all depends on the conditions they’re living in and evolution.”

Greg nodded towards the TV, where they were talking about the British reaction to uprisings in Egypt. “Did you have anything to do with that?” Greg asked, stretching out to put his feet in Mycroft’s lap.

“On the periphery,” Mycroft replied, taking hold of Greg’s feet and taking his socks off.

Greg laughed. “Sorry if they smell.”

“They’re fine.” Mycroft began to rub his thumbs into the arch of Greg’s foot, smiling as Greg groaned in response. There were so many things they could do together, he realised. So many nights they could be a normal couple, whatever that meant. They could find things to enjoy together. Christmases, birthdays… suddenly everything had more meaning.

Mycroft had missed Greg’s birthday, he realised. He’d ignored Christmas. Just left him to go through those occasions, all by himself.

“I’ve let you down terribly,” Mycroft said.

“Mycroft, no.”

“I have. You’re quite right when you say I abandoned you. I would have done anything to keep you safe. But in doing so, I only caused you pain. How can you ever forgive that?”

“I just will,” Greg said, shuffling closer to touch Mycroft’s cheek. “I already have. “What is it?” Mycroft shook his head and Greg moved closer still, kissing him lightly. “It’s you and me, yeah? We got here in the end. Come to bed with me.”

“It’s only 7.30pm.”

“I know,” Greg said. “But I want to feel you. We’ve been sad for too long, Mycroft. It’s never going to go away, not really, but we’ve got to start living again. It’s what he would have wanted. Come on.”

Greg began to head towards the bedroom while Mycroft turned the fire off. He frowned. “He loved you in his way,” Mycroft called after him.

Greg frowned. “Who?”

“Sherlock.” Greg snorted. “In his way,” Mycroft repeated, following him, turning lights off as he went.

Greg stripped his shirt off, sitting down on the edge of the bed. “Even forgetting who blames who, I’ll never forgive myself.”

Mycroft took a seat beside him. “Time heals the deepest wounds, but it doesn’t fix everything.”

“Sometimes I see him fall. I have recurring nightmares about it. Sometimes he says it was my fault, other times he just drops.” Mycroft silently took hold of Greg’s hand. “Sometimes I’m in the office at work, and I’m tired and stuff, you know, working late. And then I just… I see a movement outside through the glass and I think, fuck, Sherlock’s here to demand a case and then I realise he’s not. And it’s just the cleaner outside or something. And I dream about Moriarty sometimes. He’s staring at me. And I watch him snap Sherlock’s neck.”

Mycroft watched him as he spoke, glad Greg was opening up to him at least. “And the nightmares they’re just… the drink stops them. If I drink enough then I just pass out and don’t dream at all, but then I feel bad in the morning and even more tired. There’s times when I wish I never met him. That maybe all of this… It wouldn’t have happened. I guess I’d still be married to Caroline. Having you. There’s you and…”

“I know,” Mycroft said, kissing his temple.

“It might have taken a bloody long time, but we’re here now.”

“I know.” Mycroft kissed him gently, and they lay down on the bed, stripping off their clothes. They began to re-explore each other’s bodies with caresses and kisses, laughing playfully when the touches tickled.

“Want you to have me,” Greg told him, lying down on the bed, his cock half hard. Mycroft smiled and Greg looked him up and down. “You’re just as perfect as I remembered.”

“Older,” Mycroft said, reaching for the drawer.

“Still perfect from where I’m looking.” Greg stroked a finger along one of the scars on Mycroft’s back and he swallowed. Not perfect at all.

“Damaged,” Mycroft said.

“We’re both damaged,” Greg replied, kissing along the scar. Mycroft took the box out of the drawer and opened it, putting the lubricant and a condom on the bed. He sat still while Greg’s fingers traced over the scars along his back.

He forgot they were there most of the time. Just something else he had repressed, imagined had happened to someone else.

Greg dropped his hand. “Yeah,” he said. “Just perfect.”

Mycroft turned to him and smiled. Greg never asked him unwanted questions. He never pried, just trusted Mycroft to speak when he wanted to. And Mycroft knew he couldn’t ask for more than that.

His head was still. And as he pressed inside Greg, he knew he had come home. This was the place he belonged. With Greg, wherever he was.

They kissed, slowly and lovingly until Mycroft began to move his hips, and Greg groaned and grasped at Mycroft’s back, moving with him.

He had waited for this for so long, never imagining it would ever happen. He held Greg’s brown eyes as they gasped and held onto one another. He never wanted to let go. He wanted to hold on for as long as he could but the sight of Greg coming was enough to send him over the edge as he gasped as he reached his own climax.

They lay together, bathing in the afterglow, Greg spooning up to Mycroft from behind. He was so relaxed. He felt Greg’s breathing even out as he fell asleep. Mycroft checked the time, raising his eyebrows when he realised it was still far too early to go to bed.

Amused, Mycroft stroked Greg’s hand, listening to his quiet snores. He turned around as carefully as he could, pressing a gentle kiss to Greg’s forehead. He slid off the bed, pulling his dressing gown on.

He went back into the living room and browsed his book collection, finally taking out one of his most recent purchases, a book on quantum theory. He collected a torch from his office before settling back into bed beside Greg. He felt a little bit like a child again, reading while everyone else slept.

He couldn’t help but look at Greg every now and then, smiling at his relaxed expression, listening to his mumbles. He hadn’t realised Greg talked to himself in his sleep. He supposed he should have known from the way he had seen him shout out in his nightmares. But the mumbling… He laughed to himself, not able to make out any words, but amused by them nonetheless.

“Mycroft?” he heard Greg mumble.

He lowered his book, gazing down at him. “Yes?”

“Why are you awake?”

“It’s only half past nine.”

Greg groaned, wrapping his hand over Mycroft’s legs. “Y’could have just woken me up you know.”

“I don’t mind. You looked restful.”

Greg sat up, pressing a kiss to Mycroft’s cheek. He took hold of the torch, holding it up to the cover of the book. “Bloody hell,” he muttered. “Has all that talk of aliens made you want to become the next Einstein?”

Mycroft smiled. “No. I just find it good to be informed in all areas. I’m reading for pleasure.”

Greg laughed, nuzzling Mycroft’s neck. “Pleasure? You have a weird idea of what pleasure is.”

Mycroft turned his head to kiss him, reaching over and turning the lamp on rather than leaving them sitting in the darkness with the torch. “Do you need any more books?” he asked.

“Yeah, actually. I might have a look at your collection tomorrow if that’s alright.”

“Of course.”

He checked the page he was on before closing the book and putting it on the side. He wrapped an arm around Greg’s waist, resting his cheek against his forehead.

“Are you okay?” Greg asked.

“Me? I’m fine.”

“No, I mean. In general. I’ve been so preoccupied with talking about me I… I didn’t ask about you. You lost your brother, Mycroft. And I. I know how much he meant to you.”

Mycroft pressed his lips together. “It was seven months ago,” he said. “The world… moves on.”

“Hey. You don’t need to pretend with me, okay?”

“I know.” Mycroft sighed, kissing Greg’s forehead. “It’s been… difficult,” he finally admitted, his voice soft. “It’s been difficult to focus at times. Hard to sleep. I went to the Natural History Museum a few months ago. But it… it didn’t help.”

Greg took hold of his hand, giving it a squeeze. “Did anything?”

“No. I know you’re still hurting. I wish I could say there was a magical cure for that but… there’s only time. And seven months. It isn’t enough time to start moving on. Not if it is someone you care about.”

“Yeah.”

“Greg. There have been many times over the past five years when I wanted nothing more than to tell you the truth. That I left you because a man wanted you dead. You ended up in the Thames, and you could have died, were it not for your quick thinking under pressure. But that wasn’t the only attempt on your life.” He turned to Greg, holding his eyes. “I didn’t just give up at the first sign of trouble. I did what I thought I had to do. I could see no other option.”

“More attempts on my life?” Greg asked.

“Yes. I have enemies. More enemies than I know about, I imagine. There are plenty of people out there harbouring resentments. But I have a good team who know their jobs. They can use a weapon and they know how to spot trouble. And they are always protecting me, and they have always been protecting you. Jane Starnes too, while the two of you were together.”

“All this time?” Greg asked.

“Yes. All this time. You are absolutely right not to trust me. I don’t blame you for that. I never will. And going back to your original question… Am I okay?” He paused, mulling it over. “I will be. My work it… I’m struggling to find focus at the moment.”

“Too much to do?”

“Yes. Or too much of it is mundane. My job… my role, it has expanded considerably.”

“What would you like to do?” Greg asked.

Mycroft frowned. “What would I like to do?” He sat back, realising he had never even asked himself that. “I don’t know. I always just… did what came up.”

“But it’s your business, yeah? I mean, it’s not exactly a business, but you set it up, didn’t you?”

“Yes, in 2005. Anthea and I began working on it together in 2004.”

“Tell me about it,” Greg murmured, kissing his jaw. “Why did you set it up?”

Mycroft paused. It had been after Sherrinford had died, but he wasn’t willing to share that. “I was… between roles already. I was working in the Civil Service, but always on retainer at MI5 and MI6. A lot was being asked of me and I suppose I asked a lot of myself too. And eventually I sat down with the heads of MI5 and MI6, and told them if they wanted me to help them then they needed to let me have my own office with my own team. And they said yes.” He smiled a little, thinking back. “The more I worked in the Government, the more power I acquired. And so has been the case with the Secret Service. It’s just… knowledge. A lot of knowledge.”

“But you enjoy it?”

“I haven’t been,” Mycroft admitted. “I’ve… struggled. Lately. Anthea enjoys it, I think. She’s been working on her own pet project in Saudi Arabia for several years now, trying to get more rights for women.” He smiled a little. “They’re going to have female athletes at the London Olympics, for the first time. She’s worked hard.”

“Sounds like Anthea’s found a part of the job she’s passionate about. Isn’t there a thing you’d really like to do?”

Mycroft shook his head. “No. I always… I’ve done my duty. Protected the country’s national security. I’ve done what I needed to do. Do you honestly love your job?”

“Honestly?” Greg asked. “Yeah. I do. Not always. Sometimes. You know, it’s hard. I don’t mind the long hours or even the paperwork. I hate knowing there’s victims of crimes and we didn’t prevent it. And I hate it when we can’t solve it. But I love policing. I feel like… I’m doing something really good. And I missed it a lot when I was suspended.”

Mycroft frowned, staring silently at the wall.

“Hey,” Greg prompted. “What are you thinking?”

“Just that… I don’t know what I’d do if it weren’t for this.”

“You can do whatever you like,” Greg murmured. “I mean. You’re loaded, right? You’re a genius.”

Mycroft smiled a little. “I’ll find a pet project of my own,” he said. “I’ll find something.” He lay down, and Greg joined him, resting his head on Mycroft’s chest. Greg closed his eyes and Mycroft frowned up at the ceiling. He kissed the top of Greg’s head. “I’m better now,” he said softly. “For having you.”

“Me too. I know what you said about giving me a key. But I don’t want to rush this. I’ll go home tomorrow evening. I think we still need to take it slow, get used to each other again.”

Mycroft nodded. “Of course.”

“But this is good, Mycroft,” Greg added, kissing Mycroft’s chest. “This is really good.”

Mycroft smiled and they shared a soft kiss. Greg lay down beside him, his arm stretched across Mycroft’s chest. Mycroft reached for his book again, reading it while Greg slept at his side. 


	57. Interlude

**Jan 2012.**

**Location: Crusader House, Pall Mall, London.**

Greg woke them both up with his nightmare. He had cried out Mycroft’s name first. And Mycroft, who regarded himself as not a particularly light sleeper, woke up with a start. He pulled Greg into his arms, blinking away the sleep in his eyes as he tried to force himself awake, soothing Greg through it.

He had fallen asleep so easily that night. Once he felt tired, he had turned the light off, settled down with his hand on Greg’s chest and fallen straight to sleep. He hadn’t been worried about anything. Now he was. He was concerned about whether Greg had been taking care of himself, physically and mentally. About whether the nightmares were frequent, or whether it had been the first in a while.

They lay down, Greg’s breath getting steadier.

“Is there anything I can do?” Mycroft asked, brushing his fingers against Greg’s forehead.

“No, no, I’m fine,” Greg replied. “Sorry. What time is it?”

Mycroft reached over for the alarm clock, touching it until the digits glowed, to show it was almost 3.30am. He got out of bed to use the bathroom, yawning as he went. He poured himself a glass of water, taking a few sips before returning to bed.

Greg was lying on his stomach, the covers crumpled over his hips, his back bared. Mycroft reached out, stroking over his shoulder blades and down his spine. He moved his hand in a slow circle, feeling his smooth skin against his palm. Greg relaxed to his touch, the tension leaving his shoulders. Mycroft stroked the dimples on his back, letting his finger brush against the crack of his arse, with no expectation, just amazed he could do this at all.

“Yeah,” Greg breathed out, pushing up towards Mycroft’s hand. He stroked Mycroft’s thigh, and Mycroft was flooded with warmth, knowing it was Greg reaching for him and touching him in a way no one had for years. Intimate. Close. “Yeah,” Greg said again.

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah. Are you?”

Mycroft smiled, teasing his finger down between Greg’s cheeks before pushing the covers down over Greg’s backside and straddling him. He kissed the back of his neck, brushing his nose against the nape of his neck.

He stroked his hands against Greg’s back, pressing his fingers into tight muscles, easing the tension from them. He pressed a kiss to Greg’s neck for every one of his partner’s breathy sighs. It felt dream-like, touches in the darkness, a lazy kind of foreplay.

Mycroft reached for his drawer, and he gasped and squeezed his eyes closed as Greg’s fingers brushed against his cock, it reaching full hardness from a single touch.

“Can’t wait,” Greg whispered. “Don’t make me wait.”

Mycroft found the lubricant, slicking his fingers before settling back over Greg’s thighs. He stroked the tips of his fingers against Greg’s hole, moving in a slow circle. Greg pushed up towards them, but Mycroft pressed his hand down against the small of his back, wordlessly asking him to stay still. Greg let out a frustrated groan before Mycroft pressed two fingertips against him, leaning down to kiss Greg’s neck.

He pushed his fingers inside, listening to Greg’s sounds of encouragement, Mycroft kissing over the top of his back. Greg was settled beneath him, occasionally rocking his hips against the sheets, letting out breathy gasps as Mycroft moved his fingers.

“Are you sure?” Mycroft murmured against his ear.

“God, don’t be a daft bastard,” Greg said in a husky tone. “If you could see how much I want you, you wouldn’t ask.” Mycroft curled his finger, Greg’s hips bucking in response. “Mycroft, please,” Greg grumbled. “Mycroft, c’mon. S’three in the bloody mornin’ if ever y’have to make me wait, it’s not right now.”

Mycroft chuckled and nipped Greg’s earlobe in response, spreading his fingers, searching out Greg’s prostate.

“You have the patience of a saint,” Greg muttered, before groaning out in pleasure. “Too patient.”

Patience didn’t come into it. Mycroft wanted nothing more than to watch his cock disappear inside Greg, to feel close so him. But there was so much to savour, so much he’d been missing. He wanted to draw it out, until they were both a trembling mess of endorphins. Until Greg could do nothing but sleep, the nightmares pushed aside.

But Mycroft finally ceded to Greg’s demands, easing out his fingers before sliding a condom onto his cock, shuddering from the relief of his own touch. He pressed against Greg’s hole, biting down on his lip as the head pushed inside. It took all of his self-control not to just drive into him. Instead he went slow, peppering kisses over Greg’s hot back, looking down to where their bodies met.

His teeth grazed Greg’s shoulder when he was fully inside, taking moments to adjust, giving them both time to adjust. Mycroft began to move, closing his eyes as he rocked his hips, slow and languid, as though they had all the time in the world.

He kissed Greg’s neck, tasting him, matching every one of his groans with a gasp of his own. Greg moved his hips with him, matching his steady pace, taking him deep inside. Unsteady on his elbows, Mycroft carefully slid out.

“On my knees?” Greg asked, already manoeuvring himself into a position.

“Mmm,” Mycroft replied, sitting up on his knees behind him, holding Greg’s hip in his hand as he pushed back inside, unable to hold back a gasp this time. Greg’s mouth found his and they shared a kiss without finesse, full of heat and unrestrained desire.

He stared down to watch his cock disappearing inside Greg’s body as he moved, wrapping his hand around Greg’s body to curl around his prick. Mycroft captured his whimpers with his kisses, his other hand on Greg’s chest to keep him close.

Mycroft felt his climax approaching, and he sped up his hand, Greg pushing back against his cock and then into his hand.

Greg groaned, his muscles clenching around Mycroft’s cock as he came, bracing himself against the headboard as he trembled, spilling over Mycroft’s hand. And Mycroft came with him, Greg’s hand finding his.

He took a few moments to get his breath back, his heart hammering in his chest. He pressed a kiss to Greg’s neck before sliding out and collapsing down onto the bed. Greg flopped down beside him, taking the initiative in cleaning himself off before handing the tissues to Mycroft.

They didn’t need to say anything as Greg curled up to Mycroft’s side, Mycroft pulling the covers back over them. Greg fell asleep first, an arm draped over Mycroft’s chest. Mycroft kissed the top of his head, smiled to himself and let sleep claim him.

* * *

They read the newspaper in bed together in the morning, doing the crossword as they rested beside one another. Mycroft knew it was the kind of morning he always wanted to have at the weekend. Suddenly long nights alone and weekends with solitary strolls down Saville Row seemed like something from the past.

They could go to the shops together, or find a pub or a cafe. They could sit outside and watch the world go by, and it wouldn’t matter that it was mundane. It was a normalcy he never imagined. And he wanted it. For the first time, being average and caring about nothing but enjoying his life with the man he loved was appealing.

Mycroft got up to turn the shower on, letting out a contented hum as Greg joined him in the bathroom, standing behind him as Mycroft waited for the water to warm up. “Are you coming in with me?” he asked, closing his eyes as Greg kissed his shoulders.

“Sounds like the best idea I’ve ever heard,” Greg replied. Mycroft chuckled and stepped into the shower, reaching behind him to take Greg’s hand to lead him in.

Greg kissed him and closed the door. Greg got under the hot spray, tilting his head back and letting the water cascade down his body. Mycroft stared at him, licking his bottom lip. Greg had no inhibitions over his body, not that he had reason to. His chest was firm, with a covering of hair. And then there was that trail leading down from his bellybutton.

Greg grinned at him, wiping the water out of his eyes. “Are you going to get clean or not?”

Mycroft smiled and took a step towards him, meeting his lips in a kiss as they pressed together. Greg reached for the shower gel, pouring it into his hand. Mycroft held his own out and Greg dolloped the gel into his palm. They began to wash each other, smiling.

Greg got water in his mouth and he laughed, spluttering. Mycroft chuckled, helping to wash the suds from his chest. Greg grinned, patting Mycroft’s backside. “Yeah, yeah, Mycroft Holmes would never get water in his eyes or his mouth.”

“Well no,” Mycroft replied with an amused smile. “Not when you’re standing underneath the shower head and I’m not getting any water on me at all.”

Greg laughed, spinning them around so Mycroft was underneath the water. “Cheeky bastard.”

Mycroft smirked and washed his hair while Greg grinned at him, watching him openly with a pleased expression. “I find your interest extraordinary,” Mycroft told him as he passed the shampoo over and got out from underneath the spray so Greg could wash his own hair.

“Interest in what?”

Mycroft gestured to himself. He was content with his weight at the moment. He’d been working hard and avoiding snacks. But he’d never been completely happy with himself, not as at ease as Greg was. “You’re gorgeous,” Greg told him, sharing a kiss. “Nothing to worry about.”

Mycroft watched him wash the bubbles out of his hair before they both got out together.

“Do you have anything I can wear?” Greg called out him as he walked back into the bedroom, a towel hanging low on his hips. Mycroft could only stare after him, still bewildered that he had the privilege of Greg wandering around his flat half naked. But he followed him in and found him a pair of boxers and a shirt.

They watched The Two Towers after lunch, still touching as though they couldn’t bear to let go. Which Mycroft supposed was probably true, after everything they had gone through.

As the credits rolled, Mycroft sat back in the chair. “This is… far better than I expected,” he admitted.

“The films?”

“Yes.”

Greg grinned, leaning forward to kiss him. “You fancy Viggo Mortensen, don’t you?”

Mycroft frowned at him. “Who was that?” he asked.

“Aragorn.”

Mycroft opened his mouth to protest, but he to admit, there was something appealing about the man, in a rugged sort of way. Greg laughed and kissed him again. “For that, you’re sorting out dinner,” he said, his eyes sparkling in amusement.

“Chinese takeaway?”

“Works for me,” Greg said, his pleased smile never once leaving his face. Mycroft couldn’t have been happier, he thought, as he found his phone and called his usual takeaway of choice. Greg was flicking through the TV channels, settling on the football for a few minutes before getting up to make them both a drink.

And nothing could have been better. Greg seemed so at home, rested and comfortable. Concern lingered with Mycroft, as he remembered his nightmare from that morning. He hadn’t asked about it, and didn’t intend to. Not yet. 

Mycroft looked up as Greg handed him a mug of coffee and he smiled at him. He inhaled it and nodded in appreciation. “You used the fresh coffee.”

“Yeah,” Greg said, sitting down beside him. “Why do you even have the instant stuff if you don’t drink it?”

“My mother prefers it. Although, she’s never here.”

“How are they doing?”

Mycroft shook his head. “Not… not well. Really. Understandably.”

“Were they at the… the funeral?”

“Yes. At the front.”

“I didn’t see them,” Greg said. “To be honest, I don’t remember a lot about it.”

“It wasn’t much,” Mycroft murmured. “Did Jane… ask to come, or did you invite her?”

Greg turned to him with a small frown. “She asked to come, yeah. Mycroft. Me and Jane. We ended a long time ago. Nothing’s happened between us since we broke up last Christmas.”

Mycroft nodded. “I’m sorry. I’m not… concerned.”

“I know. Just telling you. In case you wondered.”

“I didn’t.”

Greg grinned. “Yeah, of course, you would have known if there was anything to know, I get it.” And he wrapped his arm around Mycroft’s shoulders, putting the mug back on the table as he reached for the television remote again. Mycroft rested against his side as Greg flicked through the film channels before going back to the football.

“You can keep it on,” Mycroft told him, kissing the side of his head. “I don’t mind.”

“Why do you even have the sport channels?” Greg asked.

“Honestly? I said yes to a Sky subscription years ago, and told them to give me everything. And most of the time, I don’t even watch television.”

Greg laughed, shaking his head. “Only you, Mycroft Holmes. Only you.”

“Don’t complain. Now you can watch two teams you don’t even support playing in a match which has no bearing on Arsenal’s position in the table.”

“You know where Arsenal are in the table?”

Mycroft kissed his cheek. “I watch the news. They consider sport to be newsworthy.”

“Yeah… and that’s it?”

“Occasionally I… dabble in the sport section of the newspaper to look at the table.”

Greg grinned. “I knew it.”

“Not because I have any interest. But because… because you do have an interest. You care about it and so I find that I do too. Not enough to watch it or follow it, but enough to look at the table to see how your team is getting on.” Mycroft glanced at Greg’s face and at his fond smile. He smiled himself in response, turning his attention back to the television as he sipped his coffee. It wasn’t quite to his taste, but it was better than Greg’s usual efforts.

He drank it anyway, amused as Greg got excited at the game, even though he didn’t really care who won in the end. Mycroft just sat back, content in his arms.

The food arrived as the second half was finishing, and Mycroft left Greg in front of the television as he opened the boxes in the kitchen. Greg joined him a minute later and they sat down at the table to eat.

“Are you still going home tonight?” Mycroft asked.

“Yeah. I’ve got work in the morning. But I’ll come over on Friday if you’re available.”

“I should be, I think. I’ll let you know if something comes up.”

Greg smiled, reaching over to stroke Mycroft’s hand. “I know sometimes it’s going to be difficult to see each other. We both work long hours.”

“There are weekends, if I’m not abroad. And you will always be welcome here. You don’t need to ask.”

“I don’t want to get in the way.”

“Greg, you can sit on the settee and watch football while I work. Anything you like. I won’t take your presence for granted. Not after… everything it’s taken to get to this point.”

It proved hard for Mycroft to watch him go that night. He knew they needed to take things slowly. They loved one another, yes, but they had never spent so much time together before. But as Mycroft got into bed, Greg’s familiar smell still lingering on the pillow, he knew there was more to come.

* * *

“Good morning, Anthea,” he said as he walked past her the next morning, opening the door to his office.

“Good… morning,” she replied, following him in. “You’re later than usual.”

“Did I miss anything this weekend?” he asked.

“No, it’s all in hand.” She closed the door, frowning. “Well?”

Mycroft turned his laptop on and looked at her. “I need you to send a copy of my schedule to Greg. So we can see when we are both available.” He took out some of his keys. “And can you ask Loretta to get a copy of these cut for me too?”

“For Greg?”

Mycroft nodded. “Yes.”

“Good. I’m glad.”

“As am I. I should… thank you. And Jim.”

“No need.” Anthea smiled. “Really.”

“I’d prefer to take fewer trips abroad. Can you see where we can make those changes?”

“Of course. Sherlock’s in India.”

Mycroft frowned. “What on earth is he doing in India?”

“I have no idea. Irene Adler is still in Mexico.”

Mycroft groaned, shaking his head. “Two people everyone thinks are dead, so they can both stay alive, and yet they make my life very difficult. We’ll need some surveillance in India now I suppose.”

“Do you want someone to negotiate?”

“No. I’ll go. Pencil in some time to go to India. I’ll try to meet with Sherlock while I’m there.”

“Yes, sir.” She smiled and then filled him in on his schedule for the rest of the day. It was easier, somehow, going from meeting to meeting, winning them all. He was re-energised. In control. And if he ever doubted how much of a positive impact Greg had on his life, he didn’t now.

The rest of his week went in much the same way. People did what he wanted them to do. He sent occasional messages to Greg to tell him what he was doing. He smiled when his name popped up on his phone. He was relaxed. Happy.

If things kept at the same pace, he would have negotiated surveillance agreements with many of the countries he was expecting Sherlock to visit, with a few exceptions in Eastern Europe. They didn’t know the aim was to keep an eye on Sherlock. But it was about sharing information, countries following suspected terrorists’ movements as they crossed borders.

But now Mycroft would need to draft up some paperwork and quickly before he went to India. He met with the Prime Minister to find some other things he could do while he was there, and he was given a list of tasks and negotiations to conduct.

He ordered more condoms and lubricant online and he browsed the array of sex toys available online, his eyebrows raised for the most part. But he did order some silk ties, half price with the most expensive lubricant.

And when Friday night came, they settled together on the settee watching the final instalment of The Lord Of The Rings. And Greg was sat, riveted to the screen, his head on Mycroft’s chest, their hands linked together. Mycroft watched him. He couldn’t help himself. He couldn’t believe Greg was really his. He hoped he never believed it. That he would always find him as wonderful, as surprising.

Greg turned in his arms, capturing his lips in a kiss. “Mmm… the film…” Mycroft murmured as Greg nibbled his bottom lip.

“Seen it before.”

“I haven’t.”

“This part’s boring. A load of Orks go by, they hide under a cape.”

“Well, in that case…” Mycroft cupped his cheek, deepening the kiss. He pushed Greg down onto his back on the chair, sighing in delight as Greg’s hands wandered down his back to cup his backside.

“Your arse,” Greg muttered. “Is unbelievable.”

Mycroft laughed and kissed him again.

“Wait,” Greg mumbled. Mycroft lifted his head, raising his eyebrows. “It’s a good bit now.” Mycroft chuckled, playfully biting Greg’s chin before sitting up, letting Greg rest against him as they watched the rest of the film. But Mycroft still kissed him, first his cheek, then his neck and then he drew him into another deep kiss.

They went to bed, Greg more playful from ever under the influence of wine. They had sex, Mycroft taking Greg to the edge with his hand, then his mouth, before finally entering him, making him come without even touching his cock.

In the morning, after breakfast, Mycroft sat on his laptop checking his emails. He frowned as he read one from Bill.

 

Sender: Tomlinson, Bill  
Subject: None  
S keeps trying to lose me. I think he’s struggling. Drug use??? In N.D, India. Might need to see a friendly face??? Get in touch. Thanks.

 

Mycroft kissed the top of Greg’s head before wandering into his office to call Anthea. “We need to see… our mutual friend,” he told her.

“Where is he?”

“New Delhi, currently. Struggling, according to Bill.”

“I’ll see if I can get in touch for you.”

“Thank you.” Mycroft hung up, wandering back out to the living room to find Greg stretched out on the sofa, reading a book. He moved his legs without a word, letting Mycroft sit down by his feet before he rested them in his lap.

“I saw you were going to India in a few weeks.”

Mycroft nodded. “Yes. There are a few things the Prime Minister would like me negotiate. A new defence deal, for instance.”

“Defence?” Greg asked, lowering the book. “You’re giving them weapons?”

“There’s a fleet of fighter jets the Prime Minister wants them to purchase. A multi-million pound deal. Among other plans to improve relations between our two countries.”

Greg raised his eyebrows, rubbing Mycroft’s thigh with his foot.

“We already share information on tax evasion,” Mycroft told him. “Something is bothering you.”

“No, I’m not bothered. Just curious really.”

“It’s not a secret. The country’s defence deals are laid out in black and white.”

“It’s weird. It just crossed my mind that if we go to war with anyone again, you’re probably going to be one of the people who makes that decision.”

“Indirectly, I suppose. My opinion will count.”

“Do you want it to count?”

Mycroft smiled, rubbing Greg’s feet. “Yes, I want it to count. That doesn’t make it easy, to make that sort of decision. I had a say on the Iraq war, as you know, but my opinion was ignored on that occasion. But I wasn’t so well-known then either.”

“I couldn’t do what you do.”

“I couldn’t do what you do either.”

“Really?” Greg asked.

“Yes. Can you imagine me dealing with victims? I lack your empathy.”

“You’d solve all the crimes though. That would make people happy.”

Mycroft nodded. “I suppose so. But that still wouldn’t make me a good police officer. There’s more to it than solving crimes. There’s interacting with people. Building relationships.”

“You’re better at that than you think,” Greg said with a smile. He reached out, stroking his fingers against Mycroft’s shoulder. “You give yourself a hard time. But I like you.”

Mycroft smiled at him. “Really? I couldn’t tell.”

Greg grinned. “Anthea likes you too.”

Mycroft paused for a moment before nodding. “Yes,” he finally said. “Yes, she does. Despite… everything.”

“What happened?”

“I… I’ve been quite awful to her. Insisting she’s my employee, and that’s all.”

“Why?”

Mycroft shook his head. “I don’t know anymore. It seemed like the right thing to do at the time.”

“Was her life in danger too?” Greg asked.

“No. No, it was… easier. Easier not to care about anyone or anything.”

“Did you succeed?”

“No,” Mycroft replied softly. “No, I don’t think I ever did. And despite it all, she’s still working for me. With me, I suppose.”

“It always seemed to me like she really looks out for you. It makes me feel better, knowing when you go away she’ll be there with you.”

Mycroft nodded, turning his attention to Greg’s feet again. Greg gave his shoulder a quick squeeze then returned to his book.

In the evening, they went to a new MP’s charity event for just a few minutes. He managed to catch the Defence Secretary for a brief conversation, but the documents he needed to take to India were yet to be signed. Knowing Sherlock was in trouble, he was working to a stricter timetable than he would have been otherwise.

They took the car to the restaurant after that, Mycroft leading Greg to a table in the corner. He had chosen an Italian restaurant, and Greg ordered pizza while he had a risotto.

“It’s almost like our second date,” Greg said with a grin. “Only posher.”

“Pizza Express was not a date.”

“Not officially, no.” Mycroft laughed, stroking Greg’s knuckles as they held hands on the table. “Have you even been to a Pizza Express since?” Greg asked.

“I haven’t even had pizza since.”

Greg laughed. “How have you not had pizza since… whenever that was.”

“2005. I don’t mind pizza. Although, I’ve never been to Italy. Perhaps I would eat it there.”

“We should make it ourselves.”

“Make the base and all?”

Greg nodded. “Is that domesticated enough for you?”

Mycroft chuckled. “If you want to make pizza, then be my guest. I’ll eat it if you put it in front of me for dinner.”

“What won’t you eat?”

“Olives. And I’m not overly fond of Brussels sprouts. Or broccoli.”

Greg laughed. “We’re going to have an argument over roast dinners then, because I need Brussels sprouts.”

“I suppose you’re a Marmite fan too then?”

Greg pulled a face. “God no.”

“Small mercies, I suppose.”

“Shit,” Greg murmured. “We know a lot about each other, but I don’t even know what food you hate.”

“Before this month, our conversations were usually about work or… deeper than that.”

“It’s good to know this stuff though. I mean, I don’t want to cook something and have you go into anaphylatic shock, because you’re actually allergic to mushrooms.”

“I don’t think I’m allergic to anything. There is some sort of washing powder, but I can’t remember which one. Do you take any medication?”

“No. Do you?”

Mycroft nodded. “I’m prescribed anti-anxiety medication for flying. I’ve had sleeping pills more than once, but only for a month or so at a time.”

“Not allergic to penicillin?”

“No. How do you feel about being my in case of emergency contact?”

“Surprised you even need to ask,” Greg said.

“I didn’t want to assume.”

“My dad’s down as mine I think. I’ll add you to the list at work. Though I reckon you’d know anyway.”

“I have some surveillance on you, yes.”

“Some?”

“The maximum level available to me.”

Greg snorted. “I’m trying very hard not to find that creepy,” he said as their food was brought over to them. He cut Mycroft a slice of pizza, which Mycroft accepted with a roll of his eyes. “It’s good food,” Greg insisted.

Mycroft nodded as he had a bite. “I have nothing against pizza.” He held his fork out to Greg so he could try the risotto.

“It’s… bland,” Greg said with a grin. “Admit it. You’re jealous of my pizza.”

“Hardly. Although…” Mycroft stole a piece of chicken from Greg’s pizza with his fork, popping it into his mouth before he could protest.

“Git,” Greg laughed.

Mycroft smiled at him. “Couples share food, don’t they?”

“Not if one half of that couple ordered bland food while the other one made the sensible choice and went for a pizza.”

“There’s nothing wrong with risotto.”

“Face it, Mycroft. You might be a genius. You might be able to divide 15,600 by 421 without blinking an eye. You might be able to name every word in the Oxford dictionary beginning with x. But when it comes to ordering food… you’re just wrong.”

Mycroft laughed, shaking his head. “I’m quite satisfied, thank you.”

“Really?” Greg asked. “And there I was, thinking I needed to put some effort in when we got home.”

Mycroft met his eyes. “I wouldn’t be against whatever you have in mind.”

Greg smiled and held his glass out. “To us.”

Mycroft nodded and tapped their glasses together. “To us,” he repeated, smiling. 


	58. Escape

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been MIA, I'm sorry. I wish I had a suitable excuse, but I've done my exam... All I can say for myself is Wimbledon and the Tour de France and the Ashes are very distracting, and I do very much love sport. And I've been watching The Wire, but thankfully only have an episode and a half to go. Basically, it's all my fault I've neglected this fic. But I'll be better, now I've remembered my boys shouldn't be neglected!

**February 2012.**

**Location: New Delhi, India.**

It hurt to leave Greg behind. Mycroft could see in his eyes that he was struggling. He’d had what Mycroft could only describe as a panic attack the night before his flight. And Mycroft suspected something wasn’t right. That Greg was still suffering from the aftermath of Sherlock’s ‘death’. Still blaming himself and still caught in a cycle of worry and pain.

But Mycroft had to leave. He had to go to India and tend to his brother. And he couldn’t even tell Greg that Sherlock was alive.

The moment he caught sight of Sherlock, he felt as though the oxygen had been squeezed out of him. He was thinner than Mycroft remembered, his eyes dark, sunken almost. But for someone who hadn’t been taking care of himself, he still talked at 150 miles per hour. Mycroft put that down to the drugs.

Bill Tomlinson had picked Mycroft up from the airport and taken him to where Sherlock was staying, in some dingy apartment in the city. It was sweltering hot inside but Sherlock appeared not to notice as he lay on the single bed wrapped in a red blanket.

Mycroft took his tie off, folding it into his pocket before walking into the room. He pushed his sleeves up to his elbows. He took a seat on the uncomfortable wooden chair in the corner, as Sherlock regaled his tales of his time in South America. But Mycroft couldn’t even keep up with his thoughts. His speech was disjointed. A tangled mess of sentences and words.

“Sherlock,” Mycroft murmured. “What on earth are you doing to yourself?”

Those usually blue eyes flicked up to meet his, darkened and intense. “What you told me to do.”

“I didn’t tell you to do this,” Mycroft said, glancing down at the track marks on Sherlock’s arm. “What can I do?”

“You’ve done enough.”

Mycroft sighed, shaking his head. He strode across the room, bending down to pick up Sherlock’s stash from the box beside the bed, turned into a makeshift table. Sherlock mumbled a protest, but Mycroft emptied the drugs and needles into his briefcase to dispose of later. He took his seat again, folding his hands in his lap.

Sherlock rolled over onto his other side, his back to Mycroft as he pulled his legs up to his chest. Mycroft sighed and dabbed his own forehead with his handkerchief.

It was loud outside. Cars were beeped, people shouted, the traffic piling up. From the kitchen, he could hear Bill and Anthea’s voices, though he couldn’t make out what they were saying.

“List,” Sherlock muttered.

Mycroft frowned. “Sorry?”

“List. On the floor.”

Mycroft stood up and looked around until he found the screwed up piece of paper near the door. He collected it and smoothed it out, taking his seat again. Sherlock’s handwriting was barely legible.

“Has there been a single moment you’ve been anything but high?” Mycroft asked, rolling his eyes. He took a long breath and flicked his eyed over the note, trying to read his scrawl. “It’s in code,” he finally realised with an amused smile.

“That took a while.”

“Your handwriting leaves a lot to be desired.” He read the note again. “You have used a substitution cipher. You can see that from the number of re-occurring letters. It’s hardly sophisticated.”

“It didn’t need to be. It’s meaningless to anyone else.”

Mycroft frowned at him. “Then why bother?”

Sherlock rolled back over to look at him. “Your man was annoying me. I thought I’d give him a game. He’s the one who gave up and threw it away.”

Mycroft smiled. “Bill has never worked with mathematics or ciphers.”

“Clearly. Worked it out yet?”

“Almost.”

“God, you’re slow.”

Mycroft raised his eyebrows and returned to the note. “They’re names. Places.”

“Cities.”

“Mmm. Why?”

“It’s where I can find my 11 targets.”

“You’ve narrowed it down to 11?” Mycroft asked.

“I would have thought you would have a list of your own,” Sherlock muttered, staring at Mycroft. He sat up, wincing as he did. He reached for a cigarette packet and lighter from a shelf above his head.

“I have a list, yes,” Mycroft told him. “I’m trying to find Sebastian Moran. He left London eventually but we lost him.”

“He never left London.”

Mycroft frowned. “Sorry?”

“Moran. He’s been right under your nose the whole time.” Mycroft frowned. “He’s gone now,” Sherlock said with a mocking tone to his voice. “I don’t know where, but I’ll find out.” Sherlock lit the cigarette and held it loosely between his lips as he reached up to his shelf again and retrieved a little bag out white powder.

“That’s not your usual substance of choice,” Mycroft muttered.

“Thought I’d give it a go.” Sherlock emptied some out onto his hand before snorting it.

Mycroft frowned and stood up, dropping the paper down onto the chair. He walked over to Sherlock, taking a seat on the edge of the bed. He plucked the little bag from between Sherlock’s fingers as Sherlock’s eyes rolled back, tucking it away into his pocket. “Talk to me,” he said.

Sherlock sneered, letting out a puff of smoke. “And say what?”

“Get it off your chest. All the things you want to say to me. I won’t argue. If you think I’ve ruined your life, then say so.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, collapsing back down onto his back. “God, you do ruin everything. Bating you isn’t even fun anymore.” He threw the cigarette packet at Mycroft’s arm. “Have one.”

Mycroft raised his eyebrows but took one out before lighting it. “I was struggling to follow your chain of thought earlier. Can you remind me what you’ve been doing?”

“Our mutual friend and I found the fake Vermeer painter in Argentina. He’s making good money out of faking paintings.”

“It’s harder to fool the art world than it used to be,” Mycroft said. “The art houses are less inclined to confirm the authenticity of new-found works by famous artists. They’re feeling especially burned after the Vermeer.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Sherlock said. “Remember the art theft at the British Gallery storage warehouse four years ago? No one knows exactly what was stolen from there. He just has to claim that’s where his works came from.”

“Stolen art no one can hang.”

“It’s an investment,” Sherlock replied. “Do you want to know about him or not?”

“Of course.”

“He never met Moriarty. Standard pattern. No one meets Moriarty. Even our mutual friend never met him.”

“But he has to have met someone,” Mycroft murmured. “At some point.”

“Correct. Follow the chain and it begins to unravel.”

Mycroft took a drag of the cigarette and coughed a little. “You could have bought some a little more to my taste,” he said, stamping it out in a mug on the box.

Sherlock smirked. “Where would the fun be in that?” he asked.

Mycroft ignored him. “Eleven targets, you said?”

“Moran, obviously. There were 13. You killed one. The one on Mrs Hudson disappeared, Bill tracked him down to Serbia where he was working on a job. So he’s out of the picture now too. There’s a man in New Delhi. Corrupt businessman and now a politician. He has some ties to Eastern Europe, business interests and the like.”

“Manish Rahane.”

“Yes. Know him?”

“Yes,” Mycroft confirmed. “I met him once, at a meeting a few years ago. I flagged him up and put him on a ‘watch list’.”

“What happened to the list?”

“MI6 are keeping an eye on him, as far as I’m aware. I’ll find out what they know. Who else?”

“A blonde woman is running a drug smuggling ring from Latvia. There’s also Baron Maupertuis. Trepoff.”

“Trepoff?”

“Yep. Links to terrorist organisations. Uses fear of terrorism to boost sales of his surveillance equipment, which he then sells to both Governments and criminal networks.”

“Savvy businessman. Yes. I know him.”

“Two business people in Qatar have links to Government corruption, both of whom were aided by Moriarty and are now looking for someone else to do their dirty work for them. They’re responsible for a number of deaths each. Moriarty’s inner group have fingers everywhere. I haven’t identified them yet, besides having an idea of where they are, but I know they’re dangerous.”

“How will you find out who you’re looking for?” Mycroft asked.

“I’m hoping Bill might assist me in finding that out.”

“He isn’t your best bet when it comes to torture. I’ll replace Bill with Edward Palfrey when it comes to that.”

Sherlock nodded. “Good. I plan to have most of them sent to prison.”

“Yes. I’d prefer that too.”

“We don’t need to add any more bodies to the Holmes kill list,” Sherlock said with a vague smile. “Between the three of us, we’ve got quite a few.”

Mycroft raised his eyebrows. “And yet you haven’t killed anything. That I’m aware of.”

“Ah. There was the pigeon.”

Mycroft smiled. “Oh yes. The pigeon. I’m not convinced our uncle ever forgave you for that.”

“I didn’t know the pigeon was blind.”

“Nor did you, I suspect, appreciate the hunting abilities of our uncle’s cat. Nonetheless, you didn’t actually kill the pigeon with your own hands.”

“I didn’t try to stop the cat though.”

“We’ll put it down to scientific enquiry,” Mycroft said with an amused smile.

“And here I was, thinking our family cut ties with us because of Sherrinford. It was all about the damn pigeon.”

“I think, considering your age at the time, you were forgiven for the pigeon incident.”

Sherlock snorted and closed his eyes. “All I remember from being a child was everyone’s constant disapproval.”

“Mummy never disapproved. She encouraged your… quirks.”

“So did Sherrinford. You disapproved of everything.”

Mycroft pressed his lips together. “We have more important jobs to do than bring up our family history.”

“Oh yes, I forgot. You’re here to tell me how you’re going to keep me under surveillance.”

“It’s vital.”

Sherlock shrugged and rolled onto his side, lighting another cigarette. “I’m sure I’ll be far less annoying for you if I’m dead.”

“I can’t deny that,” Mycroft muttered. “But believe it or not, I will be working to keep you alive. So I need you to work with me rather than against me. And I need you to start communicating more effectively with Bill.”

Sherlock blew out some smoke. “Give me my cocaine.”

“No.”

Sherlock sat up and glared at him, a sheen of sweat glistening on his forehead. “Why?”

“Because this is over,” Mycroft told him. “The drugs. It ends now. You have a job to do, so get on and do it and stop acting like a spoilt teenager.”

“It’s weak stuff. Painfully weak. I need more.”

Mycroft rose slowly from the bed. He wandered over to the window, taking the bag from his pocket.

“Oi,” Sherlock shouted at him, clambering out of the bed but only succeeding in stumbling over onto his front, landing with a clatter on the floor, the blanket tangled up around his ankles. Mycroft emptied the powder out of the window, before turning to stare down at his brother. He began to walk towards him to help him up.

Sherlock was getting up onto his knees, glaring up at Mycroft, his hands clenched at his sides, still holding onto the cigarette. “I don’t want your protection,” he insisted. “I don’t want your men.” He reached up and grabbed Mycroft’s wrist, tugging him closer before stamping his cigarette into Mycroft’s forearm. Mycroft let out a hiss of pain, trying to pull his arm back, but Sherlock only dug his nails into his wrist, keeping the cigarette pressed against his skin.

“Sherlock…” Mycroft hissed, finally yanking his arm back. Sherlock gazed up at him, no apology in his eyes. Mycroft swallowed and shook his head. “Get back onto that bed.”

“No.”

“Sherlock Holmes. Get on that bed,” Mycroft snapped at him, reaching down and pulling the blanket from under him. “Go on.”

“And what?”

“And you’re going to hear a few truths you don’t want to hear.”

“Then why would I do what you want me to?”

“Because I’ll go straight back to London and tell John Watson you’re alive and exactly where he can find you.”

Sherlock blinked. “You wouldn’t,” he said, but he didn’t sound convinced. “No. You… you wouldn’t.”

“Wouldn’t I?” Mycroft asked. “How much do you think I care about John Watson’s life, Sherlock? Get on the bed.”

With an exasperated sigh, Sherlock stood up on shaky legs and got back onto the bed. Mycroft threw the blanket over him and walked over to the chair, dragging it along the floor. He went through his briefcase, until he found a packet of painkillers. He took two out of the packet and handed them to Sherlock, who swallowed them in an instant. He groaned and covered his head with the blanket.

“No one can know you’re alive, Sherlock,” Mycroft murmured. “I know you know that, but I don’t think you fully appreciate it. But John doesn’t live if you stop what you’re doing. Not unless we get rid of Moran.” Sherlock grunted from beneath his cover. “I know very little of Sebastian Moran. But any information you can pass on will be gratefully received.” Mycroft looked down at his knees. “I know what sacrifice means, Sherlock. I know how it feels. But you can take down 11 targets. How long could it possibly take?”

“Mycroft? Shut up.”

Mycroft nodded and leaned back in the chair. He could see Sherlock was shaking from beneath the blankets. But he didn’t move. Instead he picked up the mug from the box and pressed it against the cigarette burn, finding the coolness of the mug soothing against his skin.

“Is there anything I can get you?” he asked.

“No. Go away.”

Mycroft sighed and shook his head. So he moved his chair to the small window, and stared outside and made sure Sherlock made it through the night.

He pressed a flannel to Sherlock’s forehead, despite his protests, and forced water upon him. He couldn’t manage comfort, not in the way he imagined Greg would do had their roles been reversed. They had their demons, the three of them, demons they could never shake. Sherlock and Greg were two damaged people, harbouring fragilities neither would never admit to. Masking fears Mycroft knew he caused.

He stayed awake through the 36 hours it took for Sherlock to get through the worst of his withdrawal. Anthea brought them food and water. When Sherlock was finally able to, they sat with Anthea and Bill and drew up a basic plan for each of the targets they knew the names of.

Then he began to hold meetings with politicians. He had meetings on a vast range of subjects, from weapons to economics, from universities to business. He arranged for surveillance information to be shared. It gave him access to secret service information he wouldn’t normally be able to see. And all of it would filter through his office, and not through GCHQ.

* * *

**March 2012.**

**Location: Indira Gandhi International Airport, New Delhi, India.**

It had gone to plan, but it took weeks of work. Weeks in which he worried about Greg, and thought about him far more often than he thought he would.

He sat with Anthea in the first class area of the airport, checking his pocketwatch. Their flight had been delayed for a few hours, and she had just returned from browsing the shops. She passed him a bar of chocolate and he accepted it gratefully, breaking a square off for her to eat.

“It may seem… too late,” Mycroft murmured, frowning at the wall. “But what you did. What you and Jim both did with Greg. It hasn’t gone unappreciated. I just can’t find a way to fully express…” He shook his head. “It’s sentimental.”

“And you can’t be sentimental with me because I’m just your employee?” Anthea asked, a little amusement in her voice.

Mycroft turned to her. “I’m sorry,” he finally said.

“I understand.”

“No, I’m sorry that I… The things I said to you. I know you’re more than just my employee, Anthea.”

She patted his arm. “I know,” she said softly. “I’ve always known. I know that you’d do almost anything to keep me safe.”

Mycroft nodded once. “Good then,” he said softly. “Good.”

* * *

It was Anthea’s suggestion that he go to Greg’s flat rather than his own, and once the idea had settled in his mind, he could do nothing else.

He found Greg shaken. When he made his way to the bedroom, Mycroft found the bed had already been slept in even though Greg had been in the bathroom when he had arrived. Bearing in mind Greg’s apparent distress, he could only deduce he had been suffering from a nightmare.

Mycroft undressed and got into bed, stroking Greg’s hair as he curled up with him. To his relief, Greg fell asleep while Mycroft tried to stay awake for as long as he could, listening to his soft snoring. It was reassuring. Amazing to think he had someone to come home to. Finally settled, he fell asleep.

Greg had another nightmare in the early hours. But he went back to sleep and eventually left for work. Mycroft spent the day at Crusader House, unpacking and catching up on some more much-needed sleep.

Having Greg with him again that night relaxed him in ways he hadn’t been for a month. Just being able to look at him, hold his hand… He hoped he wouldn’t need to spend so much time away next time. And he wished that even more when Greg had another nightmare.

And Mycroft could only watch as Greg battled his exhaustion and tried to avoid going to sleep for as long as possible. There was nothing Mycroft could do for him once he’d fallen asleep. Nothing except to try to chase the images away when he woke up. All he could do was ask Greg to stay with him at Crusader House. And he did, because Mycroft told him he missed him, that he wasn’t ready to spend a night without him yet.

He found Greg in his office one afternoon, fast asleep, a mug smashed on the floor as though he’d knocked it over and been so tired he hadn’t even woken up at the noise. And it was all Mycroft could stand.

He had always promised himself he would never keep an eye on Greg through his surveillance, even though he was certainly capable of tracking his every move. But he asked Anthea to let him know if Greg left New Scotland Yard. He received the text while he was at the Diogenes, and he took a car straight over there.

He found Sergeant Donovan at her computer, and she avoided his eyes when she first noticed him walk in. But he went to her anyway. “Can I have a word?” he asked, his voice low. She looked up at him with a frown, and hesitated before she nodded. “In private?”

“Sure,” she said, standing up. “This way.” Mycroft followed her to one of the empty offices, closing the door behind him. She leaned against the desk, her lips pressed tightly together as though she was bracing herself for whatever Mycroft had to say.

“I’m here about Greg,” Mycroft told her, to ease her concerns. “I need to know if he can have a week off.”

She frowned. “It’s not really up to me,” she replied. “But I do think he needs a break.”

“Then, if I ask your superiors, do you think it would be possible?”

“Well, no one else is off so yes, I suppose it would be fine.”

Mycroft nodded. “Thank you. Please assume he will be off work for the next seven days in that case.”

“He won’t forgive you for interfering,” she said. “Even though he should definitely have a break.”

“So should you,” Mycroft told her. “Perhaps when he returns, you’ll consider taking a holiday too.”

“You don’t know anything about me.”

“I know you blame yourself for what happened to Sherlock.”

She shook her head. “I don’t. I...” She looked down at the floor.

“It’s alright. I promise. You really need to forgive yourself, Sergeant Donovan. Because I don’t blame you for a single second. And take a holiday. How you and Greg believe you can work cases without taking a break is beyond me.” He smiled faintly at her before turning and walking out.

He cleared Greg’s holiday with the Superintendent before going home to pack. He planned for them to go to Oak Manor together. It had been far too long since he had been there, and he wanted Greg to see it. Despite the memories which haunted its hallways, it was still a place Mycroft loved to be in.

Greg, predictably, did not take Mycroft’s actions kindly.

“Mycroft, you can’t just come in here and tell me I have time off,” Greg told him. “I have a case.”

“You always have a damned case!” Mycroft snapped at him, despite promising himself he would stay calm.

Greg crossed his arms. “Because people keep killing each other.”

“Greg. You are going to make yourself ill. I am not going to sit here and allow that to happen. So pack your clothes. We’re going away.”

“You can’t just come here and manhandle me into going on holiday.”

“And if I said to you ‘would you like to come on holiday with me for a week’ what would you have said?”

“Yes.” Mycroft raised his eyebrows. Greg sighed. “Fine, I’d have said I’d love to but I have a case.”

“Greg, you are working yourself into the ground. Ordinarily I would let you carry on until you realised what you were doing for yourself, but this has been going on long enough. You haven’t taken a holiday since Sherlock died. You have worked almost every day off. It’s unhealthy and you’re going to make yourself ill.”

Greg held his hands up. “Alright, alright, I give. But next time, ask before sorting my day off.”

Mycroft waited while Greg packed a bag before driving them both to Oak Manor. Greg fell asleep shortly into the journey, and that alone made Mycroft feel vindicated.

He led Greg inside, helping to carry their cases in. There was a chill to the air, and Mycroft switched the thermostat on. It wasn’t an inviting building, not really, and although he loved the house, there was something about it which always unsettled him until he finally sat down and got comfortable.

“Bit… big for two people,” Greg remarked as he looked around the hallway.

“Far too big for just one,” Mycroft replied. He looked round as Greg walked up to him, taking his face his his hands as he kissed him, no words necessary.

“Give me the tour?” Greg asked. Mycroft nodded. “Hey,” Greg said, touching Mycroft’s chin with his thumb and forefinger. “This is brilliant. Big surprise, but it’s good.”

Mycroft kissed him again, taking hold of his hand and rubbing his thumb against Greg’s fingers. He gestured to the walls. “Hallway, obviously.”

He showed Greg to the two living rooms, the formal one and the informal one. He led him to the kitchen and stocked the fridge with the milk and cream and meats and vegetables he had brought with them.

“Did you grow up here?” Greg asked, studying a 150-year-old painting of Oak Manor in the hallway.

“Yes. Until Sherlock was seven.”

“Then what happened?” Greg asked.

“Our parents decided we should meet other children,” Mycroft replied. Half true. Not a lie. For the first time, he considered telling Greg the secrets he had never dreamed of telling another soul. But not yet. Eventually, perhaps, once their relationship had been given some time to mature.

He led Greg to the dining room. And Greg laughed as he saw the knights on horseback in suits of armour either side of the table. “Bit er… fancy,” he said with a grin.

Mycroft smiled. “Yes, I know. A few years ago, I did ask my father if I could get rid of them. I find them grotesque, actually. But apparently they’re worth quite a bit of money and we would need to go through a valuation process and, frankly, I had other jobs to do.”

Greg laughed, running his finger along the table. “So. Where did the house come from?”

“My father’s side of the family. It was given to the family by King Charles II, for the support my ancestors gave him while he was exiled.”

Greg blinked at him. “A king? Have you got… I dunno. I mean, is someone in your family a Lord or something?”

“Somewhere, yes, a few,” Mycroft told him. “But a few great grandfathers ago, they gave up their title. I believe he wanted to be a politician in the House Of Commons, elected rather than be a hereditary peer in the House Of Lords. It’s all quite noble actually.”

“What happened to him?”

Mycroft began to smile. “He never won an election. He never made it to either the House Of Lords or the House Of Commons. He denied his title, so the family no longer had it to pass on. But of course, we still had the house.”

Greg grinned. “Governing the country runs in your blood then.”

Mycroft took his hand and led him back out. “For our sins, yes.” He opened a door off the dining room. “This is, I suppose a music room. Sherlock used to come in here to practice the violin, since you couldn’t hear it anywhere else in the house.”

“And you used to play on that piano?” Greg asked, gesturing to the grand piano in the corner.

Mycroft nodded. “I’m afraid so. That piano deserved far better than me.”

Greg laughed and kissed his cheek. “Go on.”

Mycroft raised his eyebrows. “You want me to play?”

“If you want to.”

“Another day, perhaps,” Mycroft said with a soft smile, guiding him back out. He showed him his mother’s office and then the library attached to it. “This is my favourite room. I tend to swap books from Crusader House with the collection from here.”

“It’s a good collection, by the looks of it.”

Mycroft nodded and showed him the bathroom as they went past. He showed him upstairs to the first floor, with all the bedrooms. He hesitated as he reached the first door they came to, before pushing it open. The room smelt dusty, clearly unopened in several years. He slid his hand along the wall before finding the switch for the light.

“This was once my bedroom,” he said as they both stepped inside. It was the same as it had been when Mycroft was 14, when they’d packed up their lives and left. And for all his parents’ murmurings that of course they would go back, his parents never had, bar a few visits to collect more furnishings and possessions.

He felt a little sad as he remembered himself at 14, remembered the night he had hid under the duvets reading before the police pulled up to the door and changed all their lives.

“What’s wrong?” Greg asked.

Mycroft shook his head. “I don’t often come in here.”

“C’mere,” Greg said, reaching out a hand. Mycroft took it, standing close so their arms brushed together. “Was it lonely?” Greg asked, squeezing his hand.

“Perhaps. I didn’t know any different. And when I did…” And when he did, he had no idea how to fix it. Greg kissed his cheeks and then his lips, and it settled Mycroft a little, but he still felt oddly affected by standing in his former bedroom.

“Always here if you want to tell me,” Greg murmured as though he knew, as though he could see right into Mycroft’s heart and understand that something had happened, something he couldn’t possibly appreciate. Mycroft wrapped his arms around him and held him, and he wasn’t sure if he was trying to comfort Greg for all his nightmares or trying to seek comfort for himself.

There was Sherlock, on the other side of the world, on the edge of trouble every second. And Mycroft’s own failings felt more acute than before. His memories seemed to have taken on a life of their own, and he found them pouring into his consciousness, all those thoughts he had worked so hard to repress.

He showed Greg to what had once been a spare bedroom, but was now his. They lay down on the four-poster bed, Greg’s head on Mycroft’s chest, and Mycroft listened to him snore and listened to the hum of the wind outside.

* * *

With no alarm, it was gone 9am when they finally woke. Greg was sprawled out across the bed, reaching blindly for Mycroft to move closer without making any real effort to take hold of his arm and drag him near to him. Mycroft chuckled and shuffled closer, kissing the back of his neck. “Coffee?” he asked.

“Later,” Greg mumbled into the pillow. “No moving.” Mycroft smiled and stroked his hair, sitting up on his elbow as he smoothed his hand down the back of Greg’s neck. “Sorry for being a grumpy sod last night,” Greg added.

“You weren’t.”

“Yeah, I was. But I’m really pleased we’re here now.”

Mycroft kissed his temple. “Let me go and make us some breakfast. You stay here and relax.”

Greg grumbled but let Mycroft go. He put a dressing gown on and wandered down to the kitchen. He made them both a fresh coffee with cream, and loaded the tray up with toast and butter and jam. He carried it upstairs and joined Greg in bed. There wasn’t much room to shower together, so Mycroft washed and dressed first and went through the house opening some of the windows to air the house.

He watched the news, waiting for Greg to join him. “Do you want to go for a walk?” he asked before Greg could get comfortable on the settee.

Greg grinned and nodded. “Sure.” They put on their coats, and Mycroft found a pair of old wellington boots in a cupboard under the stairs. Greg laughed at him as he pulled them on, and Mycroft shot him a pointed look.

“It’s damp underfoot,” he said, trying to justify it.

Greg just grinned, pulling some trainers on. “Yeah, yeah. You just look proper country estate right now, that’s all. I mean, Mycroft, you live in a posh part of London. But I didn’t really imagine this posh house too.”

“I did tell you about my ancestral home.”

“Yeah, you did. But this is more than I imagined. I haven’t even had a proper look around yet. Are there rooms you don’t even go into?”

Mycroft nodded. “The old drawing room has been largely emptied. My parents took most of the furniture to their cottage in Gloucestershire. There are bedrooms on the first floor which have been untouched for a long time. There were servants quarters once, but I believe they were used as an air raid shelter during the war, and then never used by servants again after that. I’ve not been down there since I was a child. My father had an office on the second floor, which he chose because he couldn’t hear any noise from up there. Most of the rooms upstairs are empty. We hardly used them.” He collected his umbrella and twirled it in his hand. “Shall we?”

Greg smiled and nodded, and they walked out through the front door. Mycroft locked it, and led him round the corner, to a small lawn area with several steps in the centre. “It’s a listed house, which we are responsible for maintaining. But we pay the National Trust to help to maintain the gardens. The National Trust is a charity, so we pay well over the going rate.”

“How old is it?”

“Now you’re testing my memory,” Mycroft murmured, frowning. “It was finished in the mid-1620s, I think. It was originally built for a judge. And when the Civil War broke out, the judge supported Oliver Cromwell, and I believe some of Cromwell’s army used it. When King Charles II returned from exile, he forcibly removed the judge and his family, and gave the land and the home to William Holmes.”

“Who was he?”

“A Royalist military commander during the Civil War. The Holmes family was wealthy prior to the war, but even more so when Charles II made him a Knight of the Royal Oak. It’s partly the reason why the house is called Oak Manor. And there are several oak trees in the gardens.”

Greg slipped his arm through Mycroft’s as they walked through the lawns and through what was once the rose garden. “It’s remarkable the house has remained in our family,” Mycroft said. “Many estates like this have been sold, or its owners struggle to maintain them.”

“Must cost a lot of money.”

“Yes. And it’s hardly used. Various relatives over the years did consider opening certain rooms or the gardens to the public, but I don’t think there would be enough interest in it. In the 1900s, a lot of the paintings by well-known artists were sold on. The ceilings are still grand, some of the furniture is very old. But it’s more of a family home than a home the public would like to visit. And by the standards of homes which are open to the public, it is very small.”

“But you like it?”

“Yes, I always have. It was all I knew until I was 14. I think it would be nice to do a proper study into my family history. But it’s not a priority, and I doubt I’ll ever set aside the time to do it.”

“You’re really lucky,” Greg said softly.

Mycroft frowned, suddenly realising how much he had been talking about his family, when Greg knew so little about his own. “Greg…”

“No, no,” Greg said with a smile, quickly drawing Mycroft into a soft kiss. “God, don’t apologise. I think it’s amazing.”

Mycroft nodded and looked around. “My mother had a vegetable patch here. In fact, the rosemary is still doing wonderfully.” Mycroft bent down and stroked his hand through the leaves, lifting it and smelling the earthy rosemary on his fingertips. Greg lifted Mycroft’s hand and inhaled, letting out a pleased smile.

“God, that’s good.”

“Delicious with lamb,” Mycroft agreed. “There’s some thyme there, and that looks like mint. It looks as though this is being well-tended. And that looks like rhubarb over there.”

“Rhubarb crumble,” Greg muttered. “I don’t think a lot about what life was like at the kid’s home. I try not to think about it. But I do remember rhubarb crumble. Sometimes it was really good, and then sometimes they didn’t put in enough sugar, and it was horrible.”

“We had an abundance of it one year,” Mycroft said with a fond smile. “I don’t think I’ve liked it since then. We had rhubarb cakes and rhubarb everything.”

Greg laughed, and Mycroft began to lead him down the narrow path towards his favourite part of the garden. “This is where I used to hide away to read a book.” They stopped beneath the arbour and Mycroft opened the gate, leading Greg to the stream. It wasn’t running as strongly as it usually was over the winter months, but the water was still flowing steadily. “You can imagine Sherlock down here, I suspect?” Mycroft murmured. “Seven years old, with a jar, collecting specimens to experiment on.”

Greg nodded and kissed Mycroft’s cheek. “I can,” he said softly.

Mycroft frowned and leaned into Greg, wrapping an arm around his waist. “With a building like ours, and a garden this size, you could always find somewhere to hide away. My mother got a bell to call us to dinner in the end, because she was so tired of shouting for us.”

Greg laughed and wrapped his own arm around Mycroft’s shoulders. “I remember your parents. I think I can imagine your mum doing that.”

“Yes, she always makes an impression. I will take you to see them eventually. But I won’t inflict them on you too soon.”

Greg laughed. “I can smile a bit about it now, but I remember being in Sherlock’s hospital room hugging you when they walked in. I felt a little bit like we’d just been caught having sex.”

“They already knew about you.”

“Did you tell them or did Sherlock?”

“Sherlock mentioned your existence. My mother put two and two together and… outwitted me into telling her.” Greg laughed and Mycroft looked up to the sky. “I think it may rain, we should probably turn back.”

No sooner had they made it out from under the arbour, the clouds did break and Mycroft led them to the greenhouse. And Greg kissed him and got onto his knees and sucked his cock. And it was so illicit and naughty, and it was like a scene out of banned Victorian pornographic literary magazines. And it fulfilled every teenage fantasy Mycroft never actually had.

They changed their clothes when they got back to the house, and Mycroft made them a hot drink and some lunch.

Mycroft curled up in Greg’s arms on the settee, Greg flicking idly through the TV channels until he found something he was happy to watch. Mycroft was so relaxed, he fell asleep with his head on Greg’s chest.

They made dinner together that evening, with Mycroft sending Greg out to collect some of the rosemary and thyme to use with the potatoes. They ate in the dining room.

“Did you have family dinners in here?” Greg asked.

“In the kitchen mostly. We had formal dinners in here. Christmas, and so on.”

“And where did you go to school?”

“I was home-schooled here. My teaching was done primarily in the library. When Sherlock was seven, our parents thought we had spent too much of our lives in the company of adults. When I was 14, I went to a boarding school.”

“What was that like?”

“Hideous. All those children… they seemed so stupid. And worse than that, it was exhausting. I was used to one-on-one conversations. Or when our parents held dinner parties, I only had to sit and listen. But at school… I know now that schools have classrooms with up to 30 children, but there were 12 in mine. I found it impossible to both pay attention to the lesson and follow social niceties simultaneously.”

“What did that mean?”

“I was not well-liked.”

Greg stroked his arm. “You did it though. Work out how to be a genius and be nice to people.”

Mycroft frowned. “With Anthea’s help. She prepares gifts for my staff and tells me when they are due promotions and pay rises or when they have done good work. It appears as though I’m the one giving them favours, but I couldn’t do it without her.”

“I think you’ve got a good heart, Mycroft.”

Mycroft glanced at him. “I wish I could say it was half as good as yours.”

“Bear with me a sec?” Greg asked.

“Of course.”

“You have this amazing brain. I mean, I used to watch Sherlock struggle with it basically every week. It makes sense to me, if people think you’re cold. But I don’t think it’s because you’re a heartless bastard, I think it’s for a few reasons.”

“And they are?”

“You can’t let the people you work with know when stuff bothers you, because you have to be the one in control. You don’t like to be emotional, and you think with your head not your heart like I do. But maybe it’s like when you were still a kid? Too much effort in your head, not much spent on building some sort of… Damn, can’t think of the word.”

“Persona?”

Greg nodded. “That’s the one, yeah.”

“If I’m not cold with you, it’s because you make it quiet.”

Greg rubbed Mycroft’s knee. “I’m the luckiest bloke in the world. Promise.”

Mycroft shook his head. “I disagree.”

Greg stood up and kissed his head. “Let’s have this wine on the sofa?”

Mycroft nodded. “I’d love to.”

They carried the dishes to the kitchen and washed up before resuming their place on the settee, under a brown fur throw. Mycroft had lit the fire and they sipped their drinks, watching the flames flicker and light up the room. Greg kissed him softly.

“Y’know something, Mycroft? Sometimes you’ve told me I’m the best and kindest bloke you’ve met and stuff. And I really think you mean that, and it’s great when you say it. So, I’m going to tell you something. Are you listening?”

Mycroft nodded, frowning. “I look at you, and most of the time I just think you’re so… Look at you,” Greg said. “You’re bloody perfect. You’re gorgeous, you’re so smart, you look good in a suit. You have a posh flat, get chauffeured around London, great job. And me.” Mycroft chuckled. “So, I forget that things haven’t always been easy for you. You didn’t do drugs like Sherlock, you don’t get in any trouble, you don’t have half the temper I have. I mean… Mycroft, you have those bloody scars across your back and you just get on with it like it never happened. I don’t know how you do it. Sometimes I forget things have ever hurt you. I see it a bit, sometimes, but not much. I think what I’m trying to say, is you’re incredible. You’re perfect for me. Every day with you in it…” He shook his head, as though he couldn’t find the words to end his sentence.

“I know,” Mycroft whispered, overwhelmed by Greg’s sentiments. “I feel that too.”

“I’m fucking lucky to even know you. Let alone get to share a bed with you.”

Mycroft began to smile, hardly able to believe that he too had ever got so lucky.

“I dunno if I mentioned the bit where you’re great in bed,” Greg added with a grin.

Mycroft laughed and pulled him close, pressing their lips together. The fire flickered while they kissed, while they removed their clothes, while time stood still.

And Mycroft knew he would never understood how Greg could love him in the ways he did, but he felt adored, worshipped even, as he lay on his front and Greg kissed over every scar on his back, rubbing his nose against the lines crisscrossing over his skin.

He gasped as Greg pressed inside him, kissing him, touching him, completely connected to him. By rights, Mycroft thought he shouldn’t have had this. After everything, the past few years, this should never have been his. But in a house full of shadowy spectres and whispers of past failings, Mycroft was protected by Greg, needed by him, soothed by all of his goodness.

They came almost together, holding on steadfastly to one another. And Mycroft couldn’t express it, not like Greg had, the things he loved about him. And when they lay in bed, and Mycroft listened to him breathe and stroked his hand and kissed his knuckles, he thought about all the things Greg didn’t know, the truths Mycroft wasn’t sure he could tell him.

Worse then, the knowledge of the secrets Mycroft was carrying, when Greg woke from another nightmare. He shouted out in his sleep, screaming ‘no’ and begging for help, and all the while he trembled and lashed out and scrunched up the covers in his hands. And Mycroft couldn’t do anything but avoid his flailing arms and try to get close, try to tell him it was okay, and he was safe, and nothing terrible was happening to him.

He was helpless. He could make out the anguish in Greg’s face, feel the tremors through his body even as he woke up, and lay beside Mycroft under the covers.

“I’m fine,” Greg whispered. “Promise, I’m fine.”

Mycroft stroked his hair. “It might help if you talked about it.”

“I don’t want to.” Mycroft sighed and dropped his hand. “Don’t give me that,” Greg said, rolling onto his side so his back was to him.

Mycroft bit his lip, frowning. “I don’t believe I was giving you anything.”

“You’re doing that ‘people are stupid’ thing about me. I don’t like it.”

“Greg, I was doing no such thing.”

“What time is it?” Greg asked.

Mycroft squinted into the darkness to read the clock. “4.45am.”

“Right, I’m getting up.” Greg got out of bed.

Mycroft reached for him. “Greg, don’t go. I’m not unhappy with you, please come back to bed.”

“I can’t,” Greg said. “Every time I shut my eyes, I see it. So, no.” He kissed Mycroft’s head. “I’ll have breakfast ready for when you get up. I’m sorry.”

“It’s quite alright,” Mycroft said quietly. He swallowed as he watched him go. He lay down on his back and rubbed his face. And Greg wasn’t even helping himself, he was keeping everything locked inside. Mycroft had always known him to be like that, to keep his feelings to himself. He knew he was much the same.

But while Mycroft found rest when his eyes fell closed, Greg battled terrors and fears in his sleep, and it sounded as though he lost, every single night. Mycroft knew he couldn’t help him, couldn’t save him from his nightmares.

He didn’t go back to sleep, just checked his emails on his phone and spent a little while catching up with work. Greg had warmed up the croissants for breakfast, and they ate them in the kitchen, as Mycroft showed him the map to the village so Greg could decide which route they would take.

Mycroft drove them there, and parked in a free car park by the canal. He put his coat on and held Greg’s out to him. “This is the closest village to the house. It’s where we would get all our shopping from. There’s a wonderful farmers’ market on Sundays.”

“It’s nice,” Greg said, looking around. “Makes me miss London a bit though.”

“Yes,” Mycroft agreed. “I didn’t really know any different. I visited London a lot, because I had family there, but because I lived here, I didn’t realise how wonderful it was to be in a city.” They walked along the canal, and Mycroft led Greg over an ornate iron bridge. He stopped when he reached the other side and realised Greg was no longer following him. He frowned and turned around and saw Greg holding up a stick. “What are you doing?”

“The stick game,” Greg said.

“Pooh sticks?”

“Is that what it’s called? Go on, get a stick.”

Mycroft rolled his eyes, and eventually picked one up, knowing it was an optimum weight and length to beat Greg’s. “You do remember we’re both in our 40s, don’t you?” Mycroft muttered as he joined him on the centre of the bridge.

Greg grinned. “Come on. On three…” They counted and threw their sticks into the river, walking to the other side of the bridge to see Mycroft’s appear first. “Dammit,” Greg muttered. “I knew you’d win.”

Mycroft wiped his hands together to clean off the dirt. “As did I.” He held his hand out to Greg, who took it. Mycroft squeezed his hand. “I’ve never done this with anyone except you,” he murmured.

“Done what?”

“Held hands in public.”

Greg glanced at him, entwining their fingers. “Seriously?”

“I’ve never wanted to be outwardly affectionate with anyone before you. I suppose it depends on what you count as public,” Mycroft conceded. “I’ve held hands with someone in front of people I knew.”

Greg squeezed his hand. “Well, I’ve never held hands with a bloke in public before you, so this is a new one for me too.”

They walked into the village, down the road and past the old cottages and perfectly-tended gardens. It felt very much as though they’d stepped back in time, before the infiltration of satellite television dishes on the sides of people’s homes.

Greg bought a pastry from the bakery, and they stopped by the village duck pond outside the pub. There was still, to Mycroft’s delight, an old secondhand book store next door. It smelt as musty as he remembered, the books in no discernible order. He bought a few he liked the look of before they went back to the pub for lunch.

“How are you feeling?” Mycroft asked as they sat down.

Greg shrugged and squinted at the TV screen to check the football score. “Yeah, fine,” he replied.

“You were in quite a state this morning. It’s rather scary, to see you get like that.”

“Mycroft. I’m fine.”

Mycroft nodded, knowing he had to stop pushing, and glanced at the screen. “Is this an important game?”

“No, not really. Well, they’re all important, but these are two mid-table sides.”

“Right.” Mycroft sipped his lemonade and gave Greg’s knee a gentle squeeze. Greg took hold of his hand, stroking his fingers.

Greg had a steak and ale pie, and Mycroft had a salad, keeping an eye on him as they ate. He seemed fairly chipper, but there was a tiredness in his eyes which hadn’t been there the day before. Mycroft knew Greg was avoiding the subject of the nightmares. And in doing so, he was keeping Mycroft at an arm’s length.

Mycroft did his best to understand. He knew what it was like to push someone away out of self-preservation. But it didn’t mean he didn’t find it frustrating, and a little concerning too. Barring Sherlock, he wanted to share everything with Greg. It would take time. But if Greg ever asked him a direct question, he wanted to be able to answer it, and he would try to. He could only hope that would eventually work both ways.

After they ate dinner at Oak Manor, Mycroft sat down with one of his new books, thinking Greg clearly needed some space. He had been quiet throughout the afternoon, and though he had helped to chop up the vegetables and made the gravy, he hadn’t been his usual cheerful self. So, for his own sake as much as Greg’s, Mycroft kissed his cheek, poured himself a glass of wine and told him he would be in the sitting room if Greg wanted to join him.

Greg didn’t leave the kitchen for half an hour. Mycroft read, then re-read, the same pages over and over, struggling to concentrate on them. He could faintly hear Greg pottering about, clearing dishes away and getting a glass of wine for himself.

Eventually Greg joined him on the other end of the settee. Mycroft continued to read, even while Greg topped up their wine glasses.

“You want to know about the nightmares,” Greg finally said.

Mycroft looked at him from over the top of his book. “I want to know everything about you, that you are willing to share. If you want to talk about the nightmares, then I will listen. But you can tell me all or nothing. It doesn’t change anything.”

“I never…”

“I know,” Mycroft said gently. He watched Greg take another sip of his wine, frowning and struggling with whatever he wanted to say. Mycroft turned a page in his book, though he still watched Greg.

“It’s a kid,” Greg finally said. “It’s… the same kid. Always the same kid. His name.” Greg sighed. “His name was Jamall Milone. I was just a PC at the time. Got a call through one afternoon that there had been a body found. I was only a few streets down, so I went straight there. I was first on the scene. And I found him. He was so small. Wearing… he wore a red t-shirt. And his face…”

Mycroft watched Greg shake his head, scrunching up his face as though he was seeing it now, the dead child. This was the case, Mycroft realised. The case Greg had always struggled with.

“I had to secure the scene, which wasn’t hard, because no one wanted to be out in that field,” Greg finally continued. “It was bloody freezing. I was there about 20 minutes before anyone joined me. Stood just… scaring off the birds. Couldn’t look away, he was so small. It wasn’t the first body I ever saw but it was the smallest. For ages, that was all I really remembered. He was small.”

Greg fell silent again, playing with his wine glass, staring into space but not appearing as though he was seeing anything.

“It wasn’t my case,” Greg said after a few minutes. “You know, I was a PC, my job was to do all the dirty work. But Carter… Carter was just a newbie on the serious crime division at that point. He kept me informed about it, I dunno why. Maybe he knew I’d be interested. It took a few days to identify him. His face was… It was awful. Eventually they worked out who it was. Jamall Milone. He was a foster kid. Been in the system since he was a baby. And one day, no one knows why, he ran away.”

Mycroft let out a breath he hadn’t realised he had been holding. He knew Greg had never told anyone about this, not anyone who didn’t already have some knowledge about what had happened. He had left it to consume him, to hurt him over and over. A case that he thought reflected his life in some way. As though he too could have been Jamall Milone in another life.

“The press gave the cops on the case a right hounding,” Greg muttered. “We had them basically camped outside the Yard looking for a scoop. They couldn’t understand why we couldn’t figure it out. Someone had found, tortured and killed that kid and then just dumped him. The nightmares started months later. They were really bad. I mean, so bad I took time off. I was a fucking mess after it.

“When I joined the serious crime division, no one had solved it. So I picked it back up. There was a new DI in charge then, and I told him we needed to open the case again. He said he didn’t have the time or the cops to spare, so I could head it up. It was a big confidence boost, that. So, I went through everything. It was all new to me, I hadn’t really been involved the first time.

“I couldn’t do it. I followed every lead I could think of. I questioned everyone I could track down. Followed up everything, I went through the box of evidence. All of it. I still failed him. And the thing…” Greg frowned. “The thing that pissed me off the whole way through was this kid, smart kid, good grades. No one gave a flying fuck about him except me, the police who worked on the case the first time around and the bloody press.

“He was just a foster kid, wasn’t he?” he added bitterly. “No one cared. No one wanted him. And he died this horrible, brutal death and I couldn’t help him. Couldn’t even catch the bastard who did it. And I know how his life was.” Greg visibly swallowed. “It wasn’t a happy one. You could be in the best kid’s home in the world, but it’s not happy. You don’t form any attachments, because those kids you make friends with will leave, or the foster parents give you back or the staff quit or move away. It’s just you, on your own and you’re left there at bloody five years old, wondering why no one ever loved you enough to keep you.”

He stretched his trembling hand out across the sofa, and Mycroft captured it in both of his own, holding on tightly.

“After I closed that case, I started having nightmares about him again. He’d turn up everywhere in my head. And he won’t go away. I feel his fear sometimes. Wake up shaking or being sick. Sometimes I thought I wasn’t cut out for this job. But no other case has affected me like that, so maybe it was a one-off.” Greg squeezed Mycroft’s hand and shrugged. “So. That’s it.”

Mycroft watched him for a moment, studying the defeat in Greg’s shoulders. He saw no catharsis in Greg’s expression, no pleasure in finally getting it off his chest. He looked like a man who thought he had failed, many times over. “You astonish me every day,” Mycroft told him. He reached over and stroked his cheek. “I have never met anyone who cares as much as you. It is both your finest quality, and, I can imagine, sometimes the most difficult to live with.”

Greg nodded. “I thought sometimes of letting Sherlock look at it. But he has-had the sensitivity of a hammer against my head, I just couldn’t cope with him being cruel about it. Even if it was just to call me an idiot for overlooking something. I think now, I should have done it. I owed Jamall that much, I should have given the case to the smartest detective I knew. And I didn’t. Let ‘em both down.”

“You didn’t let anyone down. But if ever you want a second opinion, I would donate my time to it.”

“You would?”

“If you wanted, but I understand it might offend you that I’m even offering.”

“Take it,” Greg said. “Yeah, have all of it, everything you need. I just… I need to know I didn’t miss anything.”

“I understand. Greg, you are a wonderful man. The greatest I’ve ever known.”

Greg shook his head and he scooted along the chair, dropping his head down to Mycroft’s shoulder. Mycroft wrapped his arms around him, kissing his temple. Mycroft’s heart ached. Greg blamed himself for perceived failings he likely had no control over. A memory which haunted him, a reminder of his own loneliness over so many years.

“Come on,” Mycroft said after a while. “Shall we go to bed?”

“Yeah,” Greg agreed, sighing as he got up. Mycroft finished his glass of wine and rubbed Greg’s back, hauling himself up. He followed Greg from the room, turning off the lights as he went. Greg used the bathroom while Mycroft got undressed, hanging up his trousers and folding his shirt back away inside his suitcase.

He was sat on the bed in his underwear when Greg joined him. Greg pulled his shirt off, dropping it down beside the bed, before stepping out of his jeans. He sighed and collapsed down on the bed his back. “Do you reckon me telling you those things will mean I’ll never have another nightmare?”

“I doubt it.”

Greg nodded. “Me too.” He reached out and Mycroft lay down at his side, kissing his forehead, then his nose, then his lips. “It just. It still kills me, you know?”

Mycroft stroked his hair back. “I know.”

Greg stretched up so he could kiss him, and Mycroft stroked his cheek, letting Greg control the pace. But Greg deepened the kiss with a desperation Mycroft wasn’t expecting. Mycroft followed his lead, pushing Greg down onto his back and straddling his hips. He bit Greg’s bottom lip, tugging gently at it before releasing it.

“What do you need?” he asked softly, kissing Greg’s neck. “Soft? Slow?”

“No.” Greg stroked his hands down Mycroft’s back, then scraped his nails back up. Mycroft arched his back into his touch and dipped his head down to kiss him hard, rocking his hips down, feeling Greg’s cock hardening against him. “Mycroft, please,” Greg whispered, tangling his fingers in Mycroft’s hair and tugging his head up so they looked straight at one another. “I just… I need…”

“Oblivion,” Mycroft finished for him, and Greg nodded. Mycroft got off him. “Take your underwear off and get onto all fours for me.”

Greg swallowed and nodded, doing as Mycroft instructed. He dropped his head forward, his cock hanging hard between his legs as he got into position. Mycroft smoothed a hand over his back a pressed light kisses to his skin. He kept his hand on the small of Greg’s back as he reached for the drawer, pulling out the lubricant and the condoms.

He slicked his fingers, stroking two fingertips against Greg’s entrance, watching for the smallest movement in Greg’s body, listening for every hitch of his breath. He didn’t tease as he normally would, and instead pressed one finger inside him, curling it and searching out Greg’s prostate. Greg shuddered, and Mycroft kissed his back. “It’s okay,” he said softly.

“Please,” Greg whispered. “Please, I want you.”

Mycroft pushed a second finger inside him, watching Greg tremble. He moved his fingers roughly inside him, adding extra lubricant as he did so. He whispered endearments against Greg’s hot skin, telling him he was wonderful, gorgeous, perfect. Greg groaned in response, pushing back eagerly against Mycroft’s fingers.

He reached for the condom, hastily sheathing his cock before pulling out his fingers. “Like this?” he asked, positioning his cock.

“God please,” Greg breathed out, looking at him from over his shoulder. “Mycroft, please.”

Mycroft pushed inside in one slow, steady movement, keeping his hand pressed to the base of Greg’s spine to keep him steady. He gave Greg a few moments to get used to it before he began to rock his hips, staring down at where his and Greg’s bodies met, to where his cock pushed in and out of him.

“Harder,” Greg whispered, and Mycroft obliged, taking hold of his hip and driving into him, gasping and scratching his back. He didn’t hold back, not with the way Greg was pushing back against him, urging him to go faster, not to stop.

He thrust once, hard, and then stilled to catch his breath and force himself not to come so soon. “Face to face,” Greg murmured. “Please I…”

“Of course,” Mycroft breathed out, holding onto the condom as he carefully withdrew. Greg turned around, pulling Mycroft into a deep kiss, wrapping his legs around Mycroft’s waist as he pressed back inside. They both shuddered, both lost, both surrendering to one another.

“I love you,” Greg panted out between thrusts, and Mycroft captured his words with a kiss, reaching down to wrap his hand around his prick.

“I love you,” he breathed out in return, kissing him, and shuddering as he came, biting down on Greg’s shoulder as he did so. He stroked Greg’s cock a few more times and Greg arched up, coming over his stomach and Mycroft’s hand with Mycroft’s name on his lips.

Greg wrapped his arms around Mycroft’s neck, pulling him close, and Mycroft let him, pressing kisses along his collarbone and his neck. They stayed together, Mycroft still inside him, for as long as they could before Mycroft’s joints began to ache. He pulled out, lying down beside him and gently cleaning him with the tissues. He cleaned himself off, and eased Greg into his arms, cradling him, kissing his hair.

“I will keep you, Greg,” he promised. “For as long as you will have me.”

They lay in the dark together, Greg’s head on Mycroft’s chest. Mycroft had curled his fingers in Greg’s hair, his eyes closed. Greg was quiet and still, but Mycroft knew he was awake from the sound of his breathing.

And it struck him, just then, really struck him, that they were together. That Greg had confided in him and shared a part of his life Mycroft knew he hadn’t shared with anyone. A little part of his life which still haunted him, and in some ways, had moulded the policeman he had become. The devoted Detective Inspector, protective not only of his victims, but the members of his team. Those members he knew could be affected by a case too.

And then Greg understood him too. Saw the light in him, without ever questioning it. Greg loved him. Mycroft knew that without question, knew it without even needing to hear it. And Mycroft wanted to share every piece of his life with him. He wanted to chase Greg’s demons away, and have Greg do the same for him.

They had been alone for far too long.

The house reminded Mycroft of that, of what he knew now was a lonely childhood, even though he hadn’t noticed it at the time. Of Christmases alone in later years, of meals at the long dining table without anyone to speak to. It hadn’t seemed to matter then, but he felt it now, and it weighed heavy on his heart.

And he knew when he had been in America, when Jimmy Dine had found him, he was shown for the first time what it was like to be adored. He’d come out of his shell with him and explored sides of himself he didn’t know existed. He put all that away when Jimmy died. And no one else could make him laugh until his stomach hurt, and no one else could make his heart race, or put him at ease. Until Greg.

Greg who had shared one of his deepest secrets with him. Mycroft knew he owed it to him to do the same.

He would start with Jimmy. And with time, he hoped he would be able to tell him about Sherrinford. About everything. He hoped he could bare his soul without fear of judgement or reprisal. He chewed his thoughts over for a long time, trying to remember a man he hadn’t thought about for a long time. A faded memory now, pleasant thoughts tinged with sadness for a life lost too soon.

“The second man I ever…” Mycroft started. He sighed, struggling to find a way to start.

Greg frowned. “It’s alright,” he said, kissing his shoulder. “Look just ‘cause I told you that stuff, you don’t have to do the same.”

“I want to,” Mycroft said. But he didn’t know where to begin. He didn’t want Greg to think he had to live up to the memory of a dead man. A good dead man, but a dead man all the same. Mycroft wasn’t naive enough to think he and Jimmy would necessarily have lived happily ever after if Jimmy hadn’t died. And he didn’t want Greg to think for a second that he would have rather have been with him instead.

“I was 24 when I was working for MI6 in America,” Mycroft finally began. “Jimmy Dine was a CIA agent, several years older than I. He was arrogant, but simply masterful at his job. He could talk terrorists round and round in circles until they confessed in under an hour. He was an expert shot. He was there the first time I killed a man.”

Mycroft pressed his lips to Greg’s hair, remembering his own panic, the gunfire. “We were running through a warehouse, being shot at from all directions,” Mycroft continued. “We weren’t in the USA, we were elsewhere. There was a man, tall, with a tattoo on his face and it was he or I and I shot and I killed him. Jimmy and I… we worked long hours, when we weren’t working we were together. There was a mission. Foolhardy mission, and we all knew it. Jimmy volunteered because that was what he did. He regularly ran in and saved the day, he liked to see himself as a superhero.”

God. He could see Jimmy so plainly, his confident grin as he clambered into that helicopter, about to fly to his death. Mycroft bit down hard on his bottom lip. He had thought it would be easy to say. He had thought it didn’t hurt anymore. But he should have tried harder to stop him. He should have tried to put a stop to the mission.

The CIA lost good men, not regularly, but it did. And it was worse off for losing Jimmy. It was all too clear, every time Mycroft walked through those doors at Langley and saw that little black star on the wall.

“Someone made a mistake,” Mycroft said softly, knowing that one of those someones was himself. “They miscalculated, or they trusted faulty intelligence. I never completely understood what happened. Jimmy made an error too. Several. Each mistake, taken on their own, may have been alright. But they combined and we lost three that night. Jimmy was one of them. I’m not sure there was very much left of him to return to his family.”

“Oh God,” Greg whispered.

“We were together two months, it’s hardly enough to be sentimental over.”

“Did you love him?”

“No. I could have done, I suppose. In enough time.” Greg squeezed Mycroft’s hand. “I’m not telling you for sympathy,” Mycroft said as he squeezed back.

“I know. I know. Have you ever… told anyone?” he asked.

“No.”

Greg shuffled up the bed and pulled Mycroft into his arms, and they held one another, wrapped up together in the darkness. Greg kissed him softly.

“Please don’t think you have to live up to his memory,” Mycroft whispered. “It was almost 20 years ago.”

“Hey, I know. I don’t think that.”

“I should have stopped him, Greg,” Mycroft mumbled against Greg’s shoulder. “I knew something was wrong. But I missed something, I didn’t see the full picture.”

“Shh,” Greg soothed, rubbing his back.

“I shouldn’t have let him get onto that helicopter.”

“It’s not your fault. It’s a dangerous game. You knew that, and I bet he knew that too.”

“He knew,” Mycroft murmured. “I knew. Greg, I… The things I did to you. When I left you, when I acted like I hated you, I…”

“Mycroft, it’s okay.”

“No, listen to me.” Mycroft pulled back and kissed his lips and gently held his face in his hands. “I treated you appallingly, and no amount of time is going to make that better. I abandoned you. I did.”

“Mycroft…”

“I need you to know, Greg. I need you to know that I never stopped loving you. I never stopped caring about you.”

“Mycroft, I know,” Greg whispered, kissing him lightly. “God, I know, okay?”

Mycroft swallowed and nodded. “I didn’t want to fall for you,” he murmured.

He heard Greg’s chuckle. “Yeah, I know.”

Mycroft smiled and kissed him, settling back down and letting Greg take up his position with his head on Mycroft’s chest. “Greg?” he whispered as he heard Greg begin to fall asleep.

“Mmm?”

“What you told me today. I understand what it took.”

“I’m glad you know. That’s the choice, isn’t it? Either you share everything, or you might as well admit it’s not going to work out. The more I lie to you about it, the more frustrated you get and the more we fight. I hope you know that you can tell me anything. I know there’s stuff you can’t, even if you want to. But I’m all yours. I think I always have been, ever since I met you.”

Mycroft nodded and kissed his hair. “I’m yours,” he murmured in return. “Go to sleep.”

“Mmm. Night.”

Mycroft let out a contented sigh and closed his eyes. “Goodnight.”


	59. Anchor

**March 2012.**

**Location: Oak Manor, Oxfordshire.**

He left Greg sleeping, emitting soft snores, his hand curled around the covers. Mycroft kissed his temple and put on a dressing gown, going down to the kitchen to prepare breakfast. The stone floor was cool beneath Mycroft’s bare feet, and he regretted not putting slippers on. The skies were grey outside, threatening rain. From the window he watched as a blackbird fluttered onto the lawns, pecking for a worm.

He cooked bacon and made scrambled eggs with toast. He was turning off the hob when Greg stepped behind him, kissing the side of his neck. “Missed you,” he whispered against Mycroft’s ear, his hands on his hips.

Mycroft hummed, leaning into his touch, dropping his head back against Greg’s shoulder. “I couldn’t get back to sleep.”

“You alright?”

Mycroft nodded and turned in his arms, brushing his lips against Greg’s cheek. “Pour the kettle for me?” He had slept fine until 5am, when he had woken naturally. But as he lay there, he had got wrapped up in his thoughts, worrying endlessly about Sherlock, about where he might be, about how Anthea was getting on at work without him. Eventually he had to get up, for his sanity if nothing else.

Greg smiled and kissed him before going to pour their coffees, leaving Mycroft to finish plating the food up. Greg had put on a faded white t-shirt with his navy blue underwear and black socks, and he had a sprinkling of stubble around his jaw.

“Any plans for today?” Greg asked, resting his feet over Mycroft’s under the table.

“I hadn’t thought of anything particular. Is there anything you’d like to do?”

“I’m just happy to relax to be honest.”

And that was how their morning started, resting together on the settee, Mycroft reading a book while Greg watched a film. Lazy and simple, the curtains closed to shut out the bleak weather.

In the afternoon, Mycroft went up to their bedroom to find the charger for Greg’s phone, but he hesitated by the door to his childhood bedroom. He frowned and opened the door again, looking around at the space.

He wasn’t sure he liked that it was exactly as he had left it at 14. It made the room feel like a museum exhibit, or like he had somehow stepped back in time and he was about to feel all the things he felt as a child. A determination to achieve, to learn everything. But a hollow kind of loneliness, where he didn’t fit in with either of his brothers.

He sat down on the edge of the single bed, opening the top drawer beside it. It was empty, but for a metal sweet tin, full of wrappers. He closed the tin again and tucked it back into the drawer. He was about to shut the drawer when he noticed a note tucked underneath the lining paper at the bottom.

He took the note out, unfolding it.

 _To Mycroft_ , it said, in Sherlock’s childlike scrawl. _I’m sorry I threw your book in the pond. Here is a ball. I was saving it to give to Redbeard. But you can have it. But you are still STUPID. Sherlock. (Please give the ball to Redbeard when you are done. His other ball fell in the lake)._

Mycroft let out a startled laugh, not even able to recall the incident which had prompted the note. But it was just like Sherlock to do something deserving of such a note. And it was probably only written because their mother forced him to.

He placed it down on the bed beside him, opening the next drawer. There were two books in there, two of his favourites. He must have believed they would return to Oak Manor if he had decided to leave them behind when they left for the cottage in Gloucestershire.

He turned to the first page, finding his name written in pencil in the corner. There was a photograph inside, a picture of Redbeard, being used as a bookmark.

In the bottom drawer, he found an abundance of notebooks. In one, he had listed the names of his favourite dinosaurs. He had only filled five pages of the book, and left the rest of it blank. The others were full of work he had done with his mother, mathematics and science and French.

From the doorway, Greg cleared his throat and Mycroft looked up at him in surprise. “Sorry,” he murmured, looking around at the books spread out on his bed. “I got distracted.”

“S’alright. Just didn’t know if this was a private moment or not.”

“It’s not,” Mycroft said, clearing space beside him for Greg to sit in. He passed Sherlock’s note to him and Greg laughed, wrapping an arm around Mycroft’s shoulders.

“How old would he have been?”

“Seven or younger. But I don’t even remember this happening.”

“Who’s this?” Greg asked, picking up the picture of Redbeard.

“Sherlock’s dog. Redbeard.”

“Because he wanted to be a pirate right?”

Mycroft nodded. “Yes. The dog was called Churchill originally, but he soon learnt to answer to Redbeard.”

“You don’t have any family pictures here. You’ve got loads of paintings and pictures on the walls, but no pictures of your family.”

“My great-great grandfather is the man hanging in the landing. But, yes, you’re right. I suppose my parents took most of them to the cottage.” Mycroft frowned, trying to remember if they had ever had family pictures on the walls.

“Are you sure you’re okay?”

Mycroft hesitated for a moment before nodding, leaning into Greg’s embrace. “Things are… very strained with my parents at the moment. They blame me for Sherlock. It’s a responsibility I suppose I should…”

“No, Christ no,” Greg cut in, kissing Mycroft’s head. “This wasn’t your fault. They’re grieving, but they know this isn’t on you. They shouldn’t be taking this out on you, it’s not fair.”

“But who else’s fault is it? I failed, Greg. Everything I promised to do.”

“No. No, Mycroft. Just no.”

Mycroft nodded and took hold of the note again, smoothing out the creases. “I think I need to get out of this house for a while.”

“Want me to come with you?”

Mycroft nodded and put all the notebooks back in the drawers. He held the note for a few more seconds before closing that away too. He and Greg huddled under his umbrella, walking in silence through the drizzle as they walked through the gardens, sticking to the paths.

They came to a stop beneath the arbour, it keeping some of the light rain off their faces as Mycroft put the umbrella down onto the bench, taking Greg’s face in his hands and kissing him with everything he had. Their skin got damp as they kissed, Mycroft searching his mouth with his own, trying to find balance, stability.

“Mycroft,” Greg breathed out against his lips, holding him close. “Look at me.” Mycroft met his dark eyes, feeling grounded by his gaze, his arms wrapped around his waist. “Mycroft. In 10 words or less-”

“-Fewer,” Mycroft interjected.

Greg laughed and kissed his nose. “Fewer. In 10 words or _fewer_ , tell me what I can do for you right now.”

Mycroft looked around the arbour, the puddles beneath their feet, rain dripping off the plants, the likelihood they were both going to catch colds if they stayed outside much longer. “Dinner?” he suggested.

“Done.” Greg took his hand and Mycroft put the umbrella back up again as they walked back to the house.

They went to the bathroom to dry up, and when Mycroft was in the middle of doing up his shirt, he found himself being tugged into Greg’s arms. He laughed and hugged him back, as Greg pressed kisses to his cheek. “I’m fine,” he promised, stroking Greg’s lower back through his shirt.

“Yeah, I know.” Greg gave him a soft squeeze. “Just wanted to remind you you’re not on your own in this. I’m here, if you ever need me.”

“I know,” Mycroft replied. They shared one gentle kiss before going downstairs to cook some risotto with butternut squash and Parmesan.

For all the time they were together, they didn’t get under one another’s feet. It wasn’t a fear Mycroft had harboured until they had arrived. But he realised within a few days that it could have been a possibility. But they seemed to instinctively understand each other, when to curl up close and not let go, and when to stay quiet and let a relaxed silence come over them.

Greg went for a mid-afternoon run, leaving Mycroft to put the casserole in the oven. He pottered around the house, tidying things up as he went. He found himself in the music room and against all his better judgement, he ended up searching for the sheet music for Hallelujah by Jeff Buckley on his laptop.

He couldn’t find a working printer, so he sat writing the notes out himself, copying them down.

He sat on the piano stool, lifting the dusty lid. He ran his fingertips along the cool keys, assessing how far he was able to stretch his fingers, reminding himself how he should rest his wrists.

He took a long breath, trying to make himself comfortable before trying the first few notes. It sounded stunted to him, the music laced with uncertain pauses.

“Bugger,” he muttered as he skipped two lines of notes, and even the ones he managed came out wrong. But he was nothing if not stubborn, and he continued to work at it, beginning to memorise the pattern of the notes.

But no matter how long he sat there, he couldn’t quite get his brain working in sync with his fingers. “Damn,” he breathed out, frowning.

“Hey, you,” Greg said from behind him, walking over to the piano. “What are you playing?”

“Nothing particularly well,” Mycroft told him, turning round on the stool. His mouth fell open as he took in the sight of Greg’s white t-shirt, it clinging to his skin, his flushed cheeks, the line of sweat on his brow and oh… those shorts showing off his muscular thighs. “Good run?” Mycroft asked, his mouth dry.

“Yeah. Chased the cobwebs away.” Greg grinned, walking over to him and bending over to kiss his forehead. “I should go and shower.”

“Must you?”

Greg’s smile got even wider, and he laughed, looking down at himself. “What? This is attractive?”

“If you could see what I can see…”

Greg laughed, cupping Mycroft’s cheeks. He sunk down to his knees in front of him in one languid movement. And Mycroft dropped his head back, taking a long breath. “Oh good lord,” he muttered, flicking his eyes to Greg’s, whose eyes sparkled with joy, a smug smirk on his lips.

Greg ran his hands up Mycroft’s thighs and then down again on the insides, spreading them apart. “I assume you don’t mind us defacing this room?”

Mycroft swallowed, his mind leaving him while his body reacted to Greg’s touches. “No. No, no, I definitely don’t mind.”

Greg kissed his knees and then unfastened Mycroft’s trousers, his hand brushing against his rapidly-hardening cock. Mycroft licked his lips, stroking his thumb against Greg’s cheek. He sat up so Greg could pull his trousers and boxers down to his ankles.

“If I knew this was in my future, I may not have given up those piano lessons,” Mycroft whispered as Greg kissed his way up his thigh, his hands caressing his hips.

“And I haven’t even heard you play yet,” Greg replied, his voice husky. “Imagine what I’ll do when I have?”

“Right now I’m not exactly… capable of thinking or imagining anything at all.”

Greg laughed and licked a long wet stripe along Mycroft’s length, shifting a bit closer to him so he was knelt between his legs. Mycroft shivered, stroking his fingers through Greg’s slightly damp hair. Greg kissed along Mycroft’s cock, occasionally flicking his tongue out. Mycroft took a deep breath, trying to stay composed in the face of his teasing touches.

Greg’s tongue swirled around the head, and he let out a pleased hum of approval as though he loved nothing more than the taste of it, leaving Mycroft desperately aroused. Mycroft clung onto Greg’s shoulder as he finally, finally wrapped his lips around his cock. He took his time but it was no less gratifying for it, and Mycroft could hardly breathe at the sight of his lips spread around him.

Greg let out another of those deep, pleased moans as he wrapped his hand around him, stroking Mycroft’s cock as he began to bob his head. Their eyes met, Mycroft biting down hard on his bottom lip, his thighs trembling as he tried to stay still.

He watched in rapt silence as Greg lifted his head and licked his cock, first with the flat of his tongue and then with the tip. Mycroft shivered at the varied pressure, only tightening his hold on Greg’s shoulder.

“Fuck, you’re so beautiful,” Greg breathed out, his breath all-too-teasingly close to Mycroft’s aching prick.

“I-I…”

“Shh,” Greg soothed, stroking his cock as he pressed kisses to his thighs. Mycroft nodded wordlessly, mystified at how he had ever been so lucky as to have this man in his life. Not just for the oral sex, although Greg clearly had that down to a fine art…

Greg took him back in his mouth, and Mycroft’s thoughts melted away. He couldn’t help but shift on the seat, pushing his cock deeper into Greg’s mouth. Greg groaned in response, his tongue flicking relentlessly against the underside of Mycroft’s cock.

It was an overwhelming rush of sensation, the heat of his mouth, the steady pumping of his hand, the way he worked his tongue. And soon Mycroft was patting his shoulder to let him know he was close, while Greg just sucked him even harder.

The world blurred behind Mycroft’s eyes as his thighs shook and he came in Greg’s mouth. Greg pulled off him as he began to come down from his high, licking his lips in a self-satisfied way.

Greg grinned at him, standing up and giving Mycroft’s hand a squeeze. “Watching you come has to be my favourite thing in the world,” he said, dropping a kiss on the top of Mycroft’s head.

“It’s mutual.”

“Later,” Greg whispered, kissing his lips. “I’m feeling all sticky and stinky. Play for me when I come back?”

Mycroft nodded. “Of course,” he said, smiling as he watched him leave. He turned back to the piano, pulling his trousers and underwear back up. He laughed to himself and shook his head, beginning to practise again.

When Greg joined him, he only had the first quarter of the song worked out in his head, hardly mastered, though thankfully parts repeated so he could go back to those when he stumbled over the notes.

“Go on,” Greg prompted as Mycroft paused with his fingers poised over the keys. He could see Greg in the corner of his eye, where he stood leaning on the piano with one arm, now wearing a pair of tight-fitting cotton pyjama trousers and a vest top showing off his arms, as though he had no consideration for Mycroft’s ability to concentrate. His hair was damp from his shoulder, an expectant smile on his face.

“It’ll be awful,” Mycroft warned.

“You only have to play a line,” Greg told him.

Mycroft nodded and took a deep breath. He played only the first two bars when Greg let out a soft ‘oh,’ as he realised what it was Mycroft had part-learned to play.

Mycroft longed to look up at him to see his face, but he could only keep his eyes fixed on the keys and the sheet music, determined that he would at least get through the first part and do it well. He pulled a face as he stumbled, but he picked it back up again.

_Baby I've been here before, I've seen this room and I've walked this floor, I used to live alone before I knew you._

It only served to bring up a wash of emotions, a tangle of memories, so many years of longing to be with Greg, to feel as connected to him as he did that night they danced together. Unable to play the next part, he repeated a few bars of the beginning, letting the music fizzle out to a few quiet, drawn out notes. Eventually he stilled, finally flicking his eyes up to meet Greg’s.

He could see the same emotions on Greg’s face, a smile on his face, and wistfulness in his eyes. Mycroft held his hand out and Greg took it, coming to sit beside him on the stool. They both sat in silence, holding hands, staring down at the piano.

Greg spoke first. “Seems like years ago when we…”

“It was. Almost six years.”

“I never forgot it. I mean, it’s a bit blurred for me. I was pretty drunk.”

Mycroft smiled and nodded. “I bought the CD the very next day. I listened to the song and over and over again.”

“Why?”

Mycroft squeezed his hand. “I loved you,” he said simply.

Greg leaned over and kissed his temple. “I don’t really know what... What to say…”

“You don’t have to. Here.” Mycroft took hold of his hand and guided it to one of the piano keys. Mycroft stretched his fingers before playing the introduction to [London’s Burning](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LaMyiLVMrGQ). “Now you,” he murmured.

Greg frowned and pressed the note, realising it was the perfect key for ‘fire, fire’. He laughed and rolled his eyes, and they played through the verse again.

“We’re no Mozart,” Greg said with a laugh.

Mycroft smiled and leaned into his side. “No. We’re not that.” They shared a soft kiss, Mycroft’s hand resting on Greg’s knee. “I sat here as a boy,” Mycroft murmured. “My grandfather on my mother’s side came here only a few times. He was a wonderful singer. And he would sing along to my… sub-standard playing.”

“Is this the grandfather whose ring you wear?”

“Yes. I suppose I bonded with him because he was gay. Perhaps he was bisexual. He did have a child with my grandmother.”

“So how did it happen?”

“He and my grandmother had a relationship, and he left for the war while she was pregnant. When he returned, she had fallen in love with another man. And as it turned out, so had he.”

Greg laughed and stood up, taking Mycroft’s hand. “That’s brilliant.”

“They had to hide their relationship, of course. Even when I stayed with them, they slept in separate rooms. We never really spoke about it as a family, not until later in my life. Not until after he had died, for that matter.”

Greg squeezed Mycroft’s hand. “Sounds like he was a great guy.”

Mycroft nodded and walked with him to the kitchen. They prepared dinner and fell asleep on the settee watching a film.

Mycroft couldn’t help but read Sherlock’s childhood note again and again over the next few days. He still couldn’t remember the event in question. And it made him pensive. Wondering what Sherlock was doing, whether he was safe. He wanted nothing more than to curl up in Greg’s arms and tell him the truth so he didn’t need to carry this burden anymore.

Not telling him was eating him up from the inside. Greg was the man he wanted to spend the rest of his life with, and he couldn’t even tell him this one secret. The biggest secret. A secret which would inevitably change everything once Greg discovered the truth.

They lay in the bath together, Mycroft’s back to Greg’s chest, Greg’s arms around his middle.

“Tell me if I’m wrong,” Greg said, his lips brushing against Mycroft’s neck. “But… this is it, isn’t it? I mean, I’m not sitting here wondering where this is going. For me… Mycroft. I mean this is… it’s…”

“The rest of our lives.”

“Yeah.”

Mycroft nodded. The rest of their uncertain lives. Their lives, built on a lie, a secret, an unforgivable truth. So many secrets, still haunting this house. His family, his truly ridiculous family. And Greg loved him, and wanted to be with him, but he didn’t know the worst things Mycroft had done. He didn’t know that the secret about Sherlock which Mycroft carried now, the worst in his life.

Greg didn’t know about the men he had killed and had ordered to be killed, his brother among them. He didn’t know that he would do it again. That he would kill men to keep Greg safe. He didn’t know what he would do to protect the country, to protect those he cared about.

What he had done to keep Sherlock safe.

“Greg, I’m keeping a terrible secret from you,” he murmured, staring at his toes on the other side of the bath. “And I can’t tell you.”

Greg frowned. “Why?”

“Too many lives are at stake. But not telling you is breaking my heart.” Mycroft lifted his head and looked round at him. “I’m sorry I can’t tell you.”

“It’s alright,” Greg replied. “I know what it’s like.”

But he didn’t know, did he? He didn’t know the truth. He didn’t know anything at all. And this was all such a big mistake, and Mycroft had been so foolish to believe this could last forever, because how could it, with this lie between them?

“Hey,” Greg whispered, lifting a wet hand to touch his cheek. “Hey, hey, come on. Whatever it is, it’s going to be okay.”

Mycroft’s chest clenched. “I don’t know that it is.”

“What can I do?” Greg asked. “Just name it.”

He sighed and leaned back against Greg, letting him hold him. He hurt, truly hurt. This wasn’t forever. Not the rest of their lives. It couldn’t be, could it?

“Sometimes I think you look like you have the weight of the world on your shoulders,” Greg murmured to him before kissing his hair. “Then I remember you sometimes actually do.”

He wanted to share his life story with Greg. He wanted to break down and let it go and be held and cherished, and that just wasn’t something he could do.

“What goes through this head of yours, hey?” Greg asked.

“There’s too much,” Mycroft said quietly.

“Struggling?” Mycroft nodded. “Close your eyes,” Greg whispered. “Remember the Natural History Museum? And the big dinosaur.”

“Dippy.”

“And when we went and saw that evolution thing.”

“Archaeopteryx.”

“And you kissed me in that room, remember? And you said you stored all our memories in that room.”

Mycroft swallowed. “I still do.”

“Why don’t you pick one?” Greg asked. “Does it work like that? Can you just open a drawer or look at a display and remember something?”

“Yes.”

“Pick a happy one.”

Mycroft swallowed, running through his thoughts of Greg. All those memories he used to recall when he was struggling after a long day at work, when thoughts of Greg were the only thing which could make it better, no matter how much it hurt. “You put your feet on my desk,” Mycroft murmured.

Greg chuckled. “More than once.”

“I thought, ‘well, at least he took his shoes off first’.” Mycroft managed a half smile. “And then I thought if it were anyone else I would be telling them to stop immediately. I knew I was in trouble, because I wasn’t even tempted. You smiled. As though you were seeing how far you could push. Whether you were putting your toes over the line with me. And your sock had a hole in it. Greg?”

“Yeah?”

“I would very much like it if you… if it were hard and fast. If you could just make it quiet.”

“Really?” Greg asked.

“Sex with you turns the noise off, and makes it all still. But my head… I’m almost overwhelmed I need… I need you.”

“You’ve got me,” Greg whispered against his ear. “Need to know though… I mean, I want to talk this through, just quickly first. I don’t want to get it wrong.”

“You may choose any position you like. Pin my hands down. If you leave a mark, I wouldn’t mind. If you could have me, and afterwards, lie with me, I would like that.”

“You got it.” And then Greg added, his voice soft and low and authoritative: “Get out of the bath.”

Mycroft complied, holding onto the edge of the bath as he got out. He stood on the rug, water running down his skin, his cheeks flushed as he appreciated his own nakedness, his own fragility.

“You’re beautiful,” Greg whispered, and Mycroft knew he meant it even if he didn’t feel it himself. He didn’t try to cover himself, just left himself open to Greg, because his body was all he truly could leave open to him. So many thoughts rushed through his head, so many unsaid sentences lay on his tongue… “Dry yourself,” Greg told him. And he turned and picked up the towel, dabbing it against his chest.

He listened as Greg got out of the bath, taking the towel and drying him. When they kissed, Greg held his head in his hands, and it was love, there was love, in every single meeting of their lips. The water clung to Greg’s flushed skin, and there were still bubbles in his hair, and contentedness in his eyes.

His cock was already hard, it pressing against Mycroft’s as they held one another, wrapped together, walking back towards the bedroom. Greg’s skin was soft, and Greg’s lips were a firm reminder he was there. Greg didn’t know the secrets of his past. But Greg loved him, and Greg cared about him, and for now, Mycroft could let it go.

He lay down on his stomach on the bed as Greg asked him to do. The fears melted away. He could only cling to thoughts of the two of them. He shut everything off, just focused on the press of Greg’s fingers inside him. Inside him. The intimacy of it, the connection, the absolute certainty that Greg was his, and he was Greg’s, and the world could be burning around them in brilliant reds and yellows but they had one another.

Greg was his anchor. Greg was the only one who could save him from himself. And it was dangerous and frightening, that need. The need for another human being, a human being who needed so much in return. Unsaid, always unsaid, they never conveyed aloud how much they needed each other so desperately. Yet still, they hungered for each other, always had. Perhaps always would. Perhaps, perhaps, probably they would always want one another, likely in fact, but there were dark secrets and they still hurt, and…

Oh, but Greg. Greg’s hand splayed on Mycroft’s lower back, keeping him pinned to the mattress, showing him firmness and want. And Mycroft needed everything, his skin against his, the resulting pleasure from it, to feel him let go inside him.

“I’m clean,” Mycroft told him, his eyes squeezed close, the words shaking from his mouth. “If you want… if you don’t, then no matter, it’s only a passing thought and I…”

“You want me to… You want me to without a condom?”

“If you… I only mean…”

“Yes,” Greg breathed out. “God, yes, Mycroft.” Greg kissed the back of his neck. “Get on your hands and knees for me,” he said. Mycroft did as instructed, but his body was uncooperative, and he shook and he trembled, and his cheeks went pink at being so exposed. ”Hold onto the headboard,” Greg said. “Up on your knees.” Mycroft did as he asked.

“That’s the way.”

Greg’s cock pressed inside him, no barrier between them. This was Mycroft’s first time like this, so full of trust. Greg had his soul, his heart, every part of him if he was willing to wait. Mycroft would share it, he would, in time.

Greg thrust and Mycroft saw stars. He felt full, his skin flushed, his vision blurred at the edges. Just him and Greg and nothing else. There were no other people in the universe.

Greg was gentle, Greg had prepared him properly, but his thrusts still mixed pleasure with pain and it was heady and stole his breath away.

Mycroft found himself begging ‘please’, and Greg drove into him, not holding back. It was what he needed, the escape. To become lost in Greg’s arms, and the pleasure only he could provide.

Greg’s hand was around his cock, and moans spilled from Mycroft’s mouth and kisses spilled from Greg’s. He tried to hold on, even while his orgasm got closer, he tried to hold it off. If this ended, then his mind would be open to his fears again. But he couldn’t stop. Greg brought him to the edge with every thrust, every stroke from his hand.

Mycroft let go, coming over Greg’s hand, his head falling forward, his orgasm feeling as though it was positively wrenched from him.

Greg came inside him. For the first time, Greg came inside him. And he whispered “I love you, I love you, I love you,” as he did.

Mycroft opened his eyes, to where his hands clung to the headboard, his knuckles white. Everything came back into focus. His heart clenched. “I’ve got you,” Greg promised him as they lay down together, kissing over his cheeks and his chin and his forehead.

Greg fell asleep beside him, Mycroft curled up against him. And he covered his face in his hands and his body shook, but he couldn’t force emotion from himself. The days would roll on, wouldn’t they? The weeks would pass, the months perhaps too. And he would keep Greg even with secrets untold because he was too weak not to.

And his man would leave when he knew the truth. And he couldn’t bear the thought of it. 


	60. Connection

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I didn't realise it had been so long since I posted. Sorry about that.
> 
> This was the first half of a single chapter. The other half was the Paris part. But part of that chapter has hit a bit close to home with some bad news I've received today and I didn't have it in me to write it. So they will just have to be separate chapters. I think they work separately anyway. 
> 
> Christ, I don't even know if this chapter works anyway. It's been annoying to write. Anyway. I hope it's okay. 
> 
> Thank you to those who follow me on Tumblr and sent me such lovely messages. It's why I love fandom... everyone is so kind. So thank you, it means a lot.

**April 2012.**  
**Location: Simon’s Steakhouse, South Bank, London.**

Danger had been ever-present in his life since his early 20s. It was the nature of his work. He had never been afraid of it. In fact, sometimes he needed it. He needed it to help him focus. He didn’t do the same leg-work he had when he was younger, but if he had to, if he really had to, he was sure he could compose himself to do what had to be done.  
But it was worse somehow when his staff were in danger. They put their lives on the line on his instructions. If Mycroft made a mistake, it could be fatal.

It hadn’t been his fault, not this time, but it made him question his choices nonetheless.

Bill Tomlinson had been shot in the arm. It was a flesh wound, ‘nothing to be alarmed about’, according to Sherlock. But alarmed he was. It meant they were in far more danger than Mycroft had really appreciated.

Yes, he knew they were trying to take down Moriarty’s web, which was in the process of trying to find a new king, lest it all fall apart. It was more disorganised than it had been in months. But the fractures made hardened criminals take more risks. Without the structure Moriarty had put in place, they were going hell for leather because they wanted the benefits from before.

Now they were acting alone, aimless, deadly. There was Sherlock in the midst of it all, playing a game, acting like it was fun. Because suddenly he had found joy in his pursuit. He was the lethal assassin, the dead man still walking. And Bill was a good spy. But even he got shot…

“How was your meal?”

Mycroft frowned up at Greg, blinking. His meal? He had been so lost in his thoughts he had stopped eating entirely. He looked down at his half-eaten food and to where his fork hovered above it in his hand. “Passable.”

“You didn’t like it?”

Mycroft put his knife and fork down. “It was fine.”

“You didn’t eat much.”

“It wasn’t quite… what I was expecting.”

Greg was peering at him, a frown between his eyes. “Sorry,” he said.

“You didn’t cook it. You don’t need to apologise.”

Greg shrugged. “I know, but I chose this place. I just thought… You know, I’ve eaten here before, and it was good. Maybe it’ll be better if you choose in future.”

Mycroft reached towards him, smoothing his thumb against his hand. “I’ve had a nice evening. The food was… passable. But you’re good company.”

“You’ve been distracted.”

Mycroft tried to reflect on the past two hours, but he had to admit, their time together was a bit of a blur. “Have I?” Greg’s expression remained soft and understanding, even as he nodded. “I’m sorry,” Mycroft said, still holding onto Greg’s hand.

“I know you’re knackered. You really didn’t need to come, Mycroft.”

“I wanted to see you.”

“Yeah, but we could have had a quiet night in or something.”

“We’re here now.”

“But you didn’t like the food.”

Mycroft sighed and nudged the overcooked steak with his fork. “No. Not particularly.”

“I would have taken you somewhere a bit fancier, but I wanted to pay and I can’t really… You know, this is probably top of my budget.”

Mycroft frowned. “Greg. No. I really don’t need anything ‘fancier’. This was fine. The chef was clearly having an off night.” He squeezed Greg’s hand.

“This place is usually good, honestly.”

“I believe you. Shall we change the subject?”

“Yeah,” Greg murmured, having a sip of his water. “So. What’s going on?”

Mycroft raised his eyebrows. “Going on?”

“Well, you’re really distracted. I mean, I know I was chatting about football and then the case with the ladder and the idiot with the crowbar, it’s not that interesting… But it’s like you’re not completely here.”

Mycroft felt his chest tighten. Work had never really come between them before. They were used to one another’s long hours, and snatching weekends to spend time together. But after coming back from their holiday in Oxfordshire, it seemed as though a few days a week were no longer enough. And in the past nine days, this meal had been all they had managed.

And Mycroft couldn’t even begin to tell him what was on his mind, that he was more worried about Sherlock than he had ever been. “I’m afraid I can’t tell you,” he said, knowing that wasn’t explanation enough.

“Alright. It’s okay. I know. I shouldn’t have asked.”

“You were talking about football?” Mycroft prompted.

Greg frowned. “Well, I was talking about Lionel Messi really. He got the most European goals ever. What he does, it’s like magic.”

“What he does with his feet, you mean?”

Greg smiled. “Yeah. Exactly. I can show you a video when we get home?”

“Of course,” Mycroft replied. “I’m sure I could… appreciate what he does then.”

Greg’s smile faltered then and he frowned down at the table. “Shit,” he breathed out.

“What’s wrong?”

“I don’t know. It’s weird, isn’t it? You and me spend a whole week talking about everything and anything. And now we come out for dinner, and it’s like we have nothing in common and nothing to talk about.”

Mycroft bit his bottom lip. “It’s my fault. As you say, I’m not fully involved. I am sorry.”

“I’m being overly-sensitive.”

“Greg. I. One of my team was shot.”

Silence passed over them as the waiter collected their plates. “What?” Greg asked as he moved away.

“He’s fine,” Mycroft said. “He’s hurt, but he’s not dead or requiring urgent medical attention. I’m thinking about it, that’s all.”

“’That’s all’? Mycroft, that’s not the kind of sentence you end with ‘that’s all’. Do you need to be somewhere?”

“No. There’s nothing I can do.”

Greg looked around and nodded his head to the waiter. He paid the bill, and took Mycroft’s hand. “C’mon. Let’s go for a quick walk.”

Mycroft allowed him to lead, as they walked past the outside of the National Theatre, the Thames opposite them. They stopped by the river and Mycroft allowed himself to appreciate the view. “It looks wonderful lit up at night,” he commented, looking across to the buildings.

“I just love London,” Greg replied, leaning against the wall. Mycroft stood beside him, their shoulders brushing together. They paused in companionable silence.

Whatever concerns Mycroft was harbouring, he tried to let them go, calmed by the cool air. “They used to put heads on pikes on London Bridge,” he said. “Back when people were executed that way. William Wallace and Thomas Cromwell both went on display.”

“Not getting any ideas, are you?” Greg asked with a grin, wrapping his arm around Mycroft’s shoulders. “Going to decapitate the bloke who shot your man?”

“I believe he’s already dead.” Greg let out a faint murmur of understanding, giving Mycroft’s shoulder a squeeze. Mycroft glanced at him. “You don’t… react when I tell you these things. About people being dead.”

“What do you expect me to say?”

“I don’t know.”

Greg kissed his cheek. “You got the bad guy.”

Mycroft managed a smile. “If it were that simple.”

“I guess your blokes are in danger sometimes. It’s what happens. I mean, if someone has to die so your guys are safe, and the country’s safe then…”

“But it doesn’t sit comfortably with you.”

“I don’t think badly of you,” Greg said, looking at him. “It’s just always a bit of a surprise when you say it. It comes out of your mouth so easily. ‘Oh, he’s dead’. You don’t shrug, but it’s like you’re shrugging.”

“I’m not.”

“I know. And that’s why I understand.”

“Sometimes.”

Now it was Greg’s turn to actually shrug. “Sometimes I think about it too much and it bothers me. Then you explain that it’s okay, and this is what you need to do to save the world. Then I deal with it.”

“It would be easier, wouldn’t it? If we had more in common and could… talk about football.”

“You listen most of the time when I talk about football. Just not today. You’ve been worrying, it’s okay.” Greg rocked on his heels for a second before cupping Mycroft’s cheek and giving him a soft kiss. “I know I said I’ve got an early start tomorrow. But I could do with going home with you, unless you’ve got other ideas?”

“No, I don’t. I’ll stay at yours.”

Greg took his hand, leading to where he had parked the car. They stayed silent, watching as other couples passed, some glancing at them twice, others not. A teenager snickered, but Mycroft didn’t have the energy to shoot them a look in response.

Greg drove them to his flat, the radio filling the gaps in conversation. While Greg made them a cup of tea, Mycroft skimmed his eyes over Greg’s calendar. They were due to go to Greg’s former colleague’s birthday the following night. It filled him with dread, an evening of trying to speak to people he had so little in common with.

As he sat down on Greg’s settee and looked over at his partner, now clad in a pair of shorts and a vest, barefoot and without a care in the world, he wondered if they had much in common themselves. He had never doubted their commitment to one another. Never once questioned how they got on and the depth of their affections. But for the first time since they got together, he wondered just how they fit into each other’s worlds.

Greg turned the television off and Mycroft leaned against his side, the mug warming up his hands. Greg kissed the top of his head and then his forehead. “Can you switch off?” he asked, his voice soft and considerate.

Mycroft shook his head. “I doubt it. Not tonight.”

“Yeah.”

Mycroft put his mug down on the table. “It doesn’t mean we can’t try.” He guided Greg into a soft kiss, pleased as Greg hummed against his lips in response. His stubble brushed against Mycroft’s chin and he guided him closer, letting his fingers drift over his cheek and strong jaw.

His mind stilled as he concentrated on the softness of Greg’s pliant lips. He rested his other hand on his knee, sliding his hand up his naked thigh, full of intent.

“Bed,” Greg whispered, standing up and taking Mycroft’s hand. “Before this goes too far and we can’t move.”

Mycroft laughed as he stood up, straightening his jacket. “Since most of our first encounters took place on the settee, I can’t see why that would be a problem.”

Greg grinned, kissing him again before he walked them to his bedroom. “No supplies in the living room.”

Mycroft closed the door behind them, unfastening his tie while Greg flicked the lamp on. “Hey, stop that,” Greg said, grinning at him and striding over. “That’s my job.” He pressed a soft kiss to Mycroft’s lips before dropping the tie onto his bedside cabinet. Mycroft smiled and shrugged his jacket off, holding it in one hand as Greg unfastened his waistcoat and shirt for him.

Mycroft dropped a light kiss to his neck. “I’m sorry about earlier,” he murmured, running his nose against his jaw.

“No, shh. No apologising for something you don’t even need to apologise for.” Greg took a step back and quickly stripped off his shirt, throwing it into the dirty laundry bag. Mycroft watched him with parted lips, transfixed.

Greg met his eyes and bit his bottom lip. It wasn’t a shy action, more seductive, as though he was very aware of Mycroft’s unwavering attraction to him. He slid his shorts down with his underwear, his head cocked to the right, a playful smile on his face. “Your turn.”

Mycroft felt his cheeks heat up, but he complied, folding his shirt and waistcoat before turning his attention to his socks and trousers. He sat down on the bed before pulling his boxers off, reaching out his hand to beckon Greg closer.

Greg joined him at his side. They kissed as they lay down. Mycroft’s concerns melted away until he could focus only on Greg, his hard cock pressing against him. He could feel Greg smiling as they kissed and Mycroft had to pull away so he could see his face. His brown eyes were sparkling, and that familiar crooked grin gave him such a natural boyish charm. Mycroft found himself relaxing.

Soft kisses and tender touches grew deeper, filled with intent and promise. Greg rolled onto his stomach, pushing his backside up, inviting. Mycroft straddled his thighs for a better view. He stroked his back, admiring the ways his muscles moved, the occasional freckle imprinted on his skin.

Greg rested his cheeks on his forearms, his muscles relaxed as though he was happy to delight in Mycroft’s touches. He was like some pampered creature, used to being savoured and enjoyed. Spoiled, but only in the best ways. Mycroft slicked his fingers, but only teased his hole with the tips, circling, pressing in then withdrawing his touch entirely.

Greg let out a long sigh, mixed with an amused laugh. Mycroft couldn’t help himself but to tease. He was certain he knew every millimetre of Greg’s body, recognised which muscles ached after he went for a run, knew where to touch, where to kiss, where to avoid because it only tickled.

Learning Greg had been such a magnificent adventure, but it was better now he could act without thinking. They had become so in-tune with one another that Mycroft could focus on his reactions, delight in the quickening of his breath and the way he curled his toes.

Greg was easily seduced, but willing to be pleasured. He wasn’t patient with it, not by any means, but he still gave Mycroft all the time he wanted. Mycroft knew when to push his fingers inside, when Greg was desperate but not going mad with it. When he was only just beginning to seek friction against the sheets, when he was just about to look over his shoulder to where Mycroft sat.

“Christ,” Greg groaned, pushing back against Mycroft’s fingers. “No condom, okay? I want to see what it feels like.”

“Are you sure?” Mycroft asked, curling his fingers.

“So sure. God… Please. Please, just… I need you right now.”

Mycroft kissed his back, still moving his fingers, feeling Greg’s muscles relaxing around him. “If you could only see yourself.”

Greg grinned at him. “I only want to see you.”

Mycroft couldn’t help but smile as he got off him, gently removing his fingers and reaching for the lubricant so he could slick his cock. Greg rolled onto his back, running his fingertips over his own straining prick.

They kissed, wet and just a little uncoordinated in the haze of their arousal. Greg wrapped his legs around Mycroft’s waist, letting out a soft grunt as Mycroft began to push inside. “Yes,” he urged, arching up to him. “Mycroft. Yeah. God. We could do this a billion times. I’ll never get bored of this.”

Mycroft kissed him, nipping at his bottom lip. “I don’t think we’ll ever manage that many times.” 

Greg grinned, laughing a little breathlessly. “I know, but we can try.” 

Mycroft shuddered and had to stay still for a few moments, unused to quite so much sensation. He didn’t think losing the condom made much difference physically, but the mental aspect was intoxicating. They were joined without any barrier, united and connected. 

Greg let out a deep groan as Mycroft pushed completely inside and he grasped at Mycroft’s shoulders. “Fuck, is it different? Do you feel it differently?”

“I…” Mycroft shook his head and kissed him, searching for words while his mind when gloriously blank. “Yes, closer, perhaps.”

Greg’s fingers dug into his shoulders. “Yeah. Warmer. Feels like. Well, just feels like you. I can just… Mycroft, will you move?”

Mycroft kissed his lips and then his jaw. “So demanding,” he whispered, his lips brushing against Greg’s ear.

“I don’t think you really mind. Not when it means I want you this much.”

Mycroft swallowed and nodded, kissing his neck. “No. No, I’m grateful for that every second.”

Greg pressed their lips together. “Move, Mycroft.”

Mycroft obliged and rocked his hips, drawing gasps from both of them. He kept his movements slow and precise, his eyes fixed on Greg’s. Greg held his face in his hands, his mouth open, letting Mycroft hear his every moan, share his every breath. Mycroft could feel the promise of his orgasm building up in his stomach and he forced himself to stop moving.

“Fuck, you don’t have to stop,” Greg panted out, smiling at him, kissing his cheeks. “I want to feel it.”

“In a moment. It’s too soon, we’ve hardly… started.”

“Fuck it, just do it.”

Mycroft laughed breathlessly, kissing the corner of his mouth. “I think I’ve wanted this since the second I saw you tonight.”

Greg grinned. “Then move, come on. Come on, take what you want.”

He couldn’t say no to that. He kissed Greg again, and began to move, letting his need and want take over. Greg was groaning against his lips, one hand gripping his arse, the other curled in his hair. He was murmuring endearments, promising that ‘yes, it’s good, so good’. He was swearing and urging Mycroft on with the way he moved his hips and dug his heels into his back to push him in.

Mycroft almost lost his ability to hold himself up as he came, lost in the knowledge he was coming inside of his partner, that they were together, that it was Greg. He panted against his neck, and Greg was groaning beneath him.

“Oh, yes,” he whispered, kissing Mycroft’s head. “God, I could feel that. It’s so, so much better.”

Mycroft nodded dumbly, lifting his head and kissing him. Still aware of Greg’s erection against his stomach, he let his cock fall from Greg’s body. Shaky on his arms and legs, he slid down the bed, wrapping his hand around Greg’s cock. Greg arched into his touch, one hand still tangled in Mycroft’s hair.

He couldn’t think of anything. There were no nerves, no hesitation at all as he took Greg’s prick into his mouth. Greg never pushed him, he never did, he had far too much self-control for that. And still riding the high of his orgasm, Mycroft took him deep into his mouth, bobbing his head and groaning around him with an enthusiasm he seldom displayed even when he felt it. He was good at oral sex, and good at making Greg come with his mouth, but he was rarely so uninhibited. He usually thought everything through, the way he flicked his tongue, the way he moved his mouth. But he was lost to the feel and taste of Greg’s cock in his mouth, loving the power of it, and the equal surrender.

Greg came with a guttural moan, his hand tightening its hold on Mycroft’s hair. Mycroft swallowed all he gave, loosening his grip. He lifted his head and kissed his thighs and his hips and everywhere he could reach until Greg pulled him up into his arms.

He buried his face in Greg’s neck, kissing and nuzzling his skin. Greg chuckled and hummed his approval, stroking Mycroft’s hair. “Well.”

Mycroft lifted his head and kissed him. “Mmm.”

“Mmm hmm.” Greg laughed. “Okay, now there’s a… not so good factor. Wet patch.”

Mycroft chuckled while Greg got out of bed, walking naked out of the room to use the bathroom. He let out of content sigh, cleaning himself before curling up on his side. Somehow, he was already dozing when Greg slid in behind him, pressing his chest to his back. “You awake?” he whispered.

Mycroft nodded, their bodies moulding perfectly together. “I am.”

“Just wanted to tell you I love you. That’s all.”

Mycroft turned around so he could kiss him. “I love you too.” Content in Greg’s arms, he found himself drifting off to sleep.

* * *

Staying at Greg’s meant he had an early start, but neither of them regretted it as they spent half an hour together curled up in bed. But eventually Mycroft had to leave, glad they had plans to see one another that night.

He was driven to the GCHQ headquarters in Cheltenham to meet Ruth Barker. She was as poised as ever, but she tapped her manicured nails against the table and leaned forward as he took a seat. “I’d like to tell you about Squeaky Dolphin,” she explained.

Mycroft frowned as he glanced up from the papers in front of him. “Sorry, I must have misheard. I thought you just named something ‘Squeaky Dolphin’.”

Ruth smiled. “I did. It’s our new project. It went live a few months ago, but I’m planning to share it with the NSA. I thought perhaps you would be interested in it.”

“A few years ago, I noted that the code names for our secret service operations were getting ridiculous. This one is…”

She rolled her eyes. “Are you completely fixated on the name, or do you want to know what we’re doing?”

Mycroft sighed and waved his hand. “Go on.”

“We can track trends as people view videos on YouTube, ‘like’ posts on Facebook, and visit blogging websites and Twitter. And in real time.”

“Social media surveillance. How?”

“By tapping into fibre optic cables. We can map trends, and link popular videos to cities and towns. In February, two protest videos went viral in Bahrain. The next day there were anti-Government protests.”

“I see. If it’s going… what’s the word they use? If it’s going ‘viral’…” He rolled his eyes at the horrendous sound of the word leaving his lips. “If it’s going viral, then we know what people are watching and can predict protests and violence and riots. Do Facebook and Twitter know what we’re doing?”

“No.”

Mycroft flicked his eyes over the papers. “Can you track individuals or just trends?”

“Both. Officially, this is just about trends.”

Mycroft narrowed his eyes, looking up at her. “Unofficially?”

“Why only look at trends when we can do so much more?” Ruth asked.

Mycroft sat back in his chair, his hands clasped in his lap. “You alarm me, Ms Barker. You always have.”

She leaned back in response, having a long sip from her can of Coke. “Why do you think I don’t tell you things, these days? You’re too soft.”

“I’m too soft?”

“Well, not as soft as you were. But you still worry too much.”

“Yes, you’re quite correct. Of course I worry too much about spying on innocent citizens who are doing nothing but sharing pictures of their drunken escapades with their friends on social media websites. Why should it alarm me, that I could pick a name out of a hat and read their text messages, and see what they click on Facebook, in real time, as they do it?”

“It’s not as simple as that.”

“Isn’t it? So, one of your employees couldn’t just type the name of their significant other into your system and watch all of their communications unfold in front of them?”

Ruth rolled her eyes. “Well… Yes. Technically. But they wouldn’t. Would you honestly do that?”

“No. And believe me, I could. But I think I’m an exception, not everyone else. I trust my partner unreservedly with no hesitation. Not everyone does. There’s no harm in mapping trends. But the amount of data you can have on individuals… It makes me uncomfortable.”

“Many things have made you uncomfortable, but you’ve accepted them nonetheless.”

Mycroft stood up and collected his briefcase. “Yes. I have. But there is a line. I will tell you when you find it.”

The thought lingered with him for the rest of the day. If Greg were on social media websites, would he look at what he posted? Would he ever be tempted to watch what he did in real-time? He liked to think ‘no’. What he told Ruth was the truth. He trusted Greg implicitly. He would trust Greg with national secrets if he was forced to divulge them.

But it was why Anthea kept an eye on Greg’s surveillance and security and not him. It seemed invasive. Like Greg had no freedom to move, no place he could go where Mycroft wasn’t watching him.

And yet, if Mycroft asked where Greg was, what his movements had been, Anthea would tell him. His attempt at checks and balances were half-hearted at best. He could make himself feel better because he could tell Greg he did not spy on him, and it was the truth. But it would be so easy to do. And his staff wouldn’t be the checks and balances they should be. They would simply enable it.

The traffic on the way back to London was appalling and Mycroft had to rush up the stairs in Crusader House when he got back. “I’m so sorry,” he told Greg as he dropped a kiss on his cheek on the way through the living room to the bedroom. “You should have gone without me.”

“It’s fine,” Greg told him. “Honestly. We’re not that late. Good day?”

“Terrible day. Absolutely abysmal.” Mycroft pulled off his clothes, standing in his boxers as he hastily searched for something to wear to Greg’s friend’s birthday. But even as he focused on his wardrobe, he couldn’t find anything appropriate. Instead, his mind was drifting off elsewhere, to concerns he really did not want to spend time on.

Greg stood in the doorway. “Mycroft. Stop rushing. It’s fine, we’re not that late.”

Mycroft pulled on a pair of grey trousers. “I hate being late. It’s one of the worst traits in people. It shows complete disrespect.”

“Yeah, but it’s a party, not a meeting. Loads of people will be there after us. Anyway, it’s just Sally and Sam.”

“Whom I haven’t met.”

“You’ve met Sally. And Sam’s playing in his band anyway.”

Mycroft put his shirt on. “Have we got a gift to take?”

“Yeah, it’s all taken care of.”

Mycroft hesitated, letting out a long breath. “Right. I see.”

“It’s fine,” Greg told him, walking in and kissing his cheek. “You’re not going to create a bad impression whether we walk in now, or in two hours. The party will still be happening, and, I promise, people will still like you.”

But the simple fact was, Mycroft didn’t give a damn if the people in Greg’s life liked him or not. If it were his parents, it would matter a little more, but these were simply his colleagues. And not even colleagues who had supported him after Sherlock’s death, as a matter of fact. Sam Brockhurst had, Mycroft had gleamed that much, but Sally had been grieving in her own way. But he didn’t want to create a bad impression, because it reflected badly on Greg if he did.

His first impression of the party was noise. Not from the music specifically, because the singer had a tuneful voice, but there was chatter and music and drunken laughter. There were at least 50 people, many policemen, but also accountants, teachers, full-time fathers and mothers, in short… a lot of normal people living very normal lives.  
Greg pressed his hand to Mycroft’s lower back, a reassuring gesture to remind him he was there. “Want to go to the bar?” he asked.

Mycroft answered by weaving through the crowd. His claustrophobia usually presented itself in enclosed spaces, and he had always been able to navigate rooms full of people, even if there were too many bodies for comfort. But this was a social minefield. He had no one to negotiate with, no one to stun into silence. He was in Greg’s element, purely Greg’s other half. He was supposed to make his partner shine, not drive someone to silence because they simply could not win in a debate with him.

Not to mention, he was over-dressed. He was never over-dressed to a social gathering. Or when he was, he only conveyed power and control. Now he felt pretentious and as though he had tried too hard. He reached the bar, and unfastened his top button, loosening his tie and then taking it off, tucking it into his pocket.

“You alright?” Greg asked, that protective hand returning to his back.

“I’m fine. In need of a stiff drink. What do you want?”

“Lager for me,” Greg said, turning and grinning at someone over his shoulder. “Hey, Piper, how’re you?”

Mycroft frowned and waited for his turn at the bar, casting his eye over the options. He would usually choose a spirit, but everyone else was drinking a mixer with their spirit, or had a beer. There were glasses of wine, but mostly women drinking them.

He ordered two beers, knowing he wouldn’t enjoy his. And Greg saw through him straight away, frowning at his glass. “Er. You alright?” he asked.

“Fine.”

“You’re drinking beer.”

Mycroft sighed. “It seemed to be the drink of choice.”

“People don’t… You know. People don’t analyse everyone like you do. If you want something else, go and get it. Someone else will have this.”

“It’s fine,” Mycroft told him, having a sip and pulling a face. “I wasn’t planning to get drunk anyway.”

Greg rolled his eyes, but smiled at him. “Alright. If you want to step to the side at any point, you just say, okay? They’re just people.”

They were just people. Mycroft dealt with people every day. But mostly those people needed him. They didn’t always like him, but he was a necessary evil so they pretended to. Tonight, he had to be charming. Friendly.

And there was Sergeant Sally Donovan walking towards them. She wore a black vest top with jeans and a sparkling necklace. He knew Sally Donovan. She was efficient, practical, a woman who did not demand pleasantries from others.

She beamed at Greg, pulling him into a hug and kissing his cheek. “So glad you could come,” she said. “Sam would say hi, but his band’s playing in five, so they’re doing all the usual sound-check stuff, or whatever they do.” She glanced at Mycroft and nodded her head. “How are you?”

“I’m fine,” he said, happy to play along with the traditional smalltalk. “How are you?”

“Good, thanks. Sam. His band. I hope you don’t mind that they’re…” She trailed off, fiddling with the straw in her drink.

“I know. They’re called The Consulting Detectives. I find it… comforting.”

She forced a smile, shuffling her feet. “Well, I, er…”

“Are you on Facebook, Sergeant Donovan?” The words left his mouth before he had time to fully consider it.

She tilted her head before she nodded. “Yeah. You can send me a friend request if you want.”

“No. No, I’m not on Facebook.”

She laughed. “Can’t say I’m surprised. I keep telling Greg to join the 21st century, no luck.”

Greg grinned, wrapping his arm around Mycroft’s waist. “I don’t need to see everyone’s baby pictures, thanks. I see enough of them at work.”

Sally rolled her eyes. “Telling me,” she said, turning her attention back to Mycroft. “Why do you want to know about Facebook?”

“If I told you the Government could somehow access everything you posted… would it bother you?”

She narrowed her eyes, taking a sip of her white wine. “Er. Yeah. I suppose. But then again, no. Because if they can access me then they can access criminals too, right?”

Mycroft nodded. “Yes.”

“Then. I suppose I can live with it. Why? Are you stalking me?”

Mycroft forced a smile. “I don’t personally have any access. It was hypothetical. I’m trying to… gauge how much people care about their privacy.”

He and Sally held one another’s eyes for a moment. He realised she saw more than Greg even knew. She was a good policewoman. Astute. Observant. Impressive, in fact. She knew when Mycroft wasn’t telling the full truth. “People care,” she replied with a shrug. “But I reckon there are about 15 coppers here tonight. And most of them, if not all of them, would tell you they’d give up their privacy if it made it easier for them to catch murderers and terrorists.”

“But would you act differently on social media if you thought you were being watched?”

“There’s being watched, and the _possibility_ you could be watched. There are millions of people on the internet, they don’t care about me. I can do what I want and as long as I keep posting pictures of my nieces and nephews, and holiday snaps, then why follow me?”

“In case you’re corrupt.”

Greg nudged him. “Mycroft.”

Sally laughed. “It’s fine. I know he’s not calling me corrupt. I don’t know. I’m fine with it, I think. I have nothing to hide.”

They all looked to the stage as the band finished setting themselves up. “Er. Hi. We’re The Consulting Detectives,” the lead singer said. “And it’s my birthday so if you hate the music, you’re not allowed to leave. So, basically, you’re bloody screwed.” The man - Sam Brockhurst - grinned, winking at Sally as she moved towards the stage. “We have our own crap songs to play later, but we’ll start with something you all know…”

Mycroft turned his head to Greg as the music started, and found him grinning and nodding his head to the beat. Greg caught his eye, putting his empty glass down on a table. “You don’t know what this song is, do you?”

“I’m afraid I don’t.”

“Are you going to drink that pint?”

Mycroft shook his head and handed it to him. “I don’t know the intricacies of this kind of evening.”

Greg kissed the side of his head with his cold lips. “There’s no set rules.”

“Therein lies the problem.”

“Will you tell me what’s wrong?” Greg asked.

“This. I don’t know how to act. Everyone’s so… relaxed. They don’t read into everyone’s speech, they accept it at face-value. Smalltalk comes easily. The alcohol runs freely, with no regard for the fact you start telling people things you should perhaps not.”

“You go to parties.”

“Yes, to make a statement. To… achieve something. What do I achieve from tonight?”

“I don’t know. I think you… I hope you have a good time.”

Mycroft sighed and leaned into Greg’s side, resting his chin on his shoulder. “I think I scared Sally off.”

“No, I think she went closer to the stage so she could watch her boyfriend play the guitar and sing. Mycroft. Look at me.” He sighed and stepped away so he could look Greg square in the eyes. Greg put his pint down so he could rest his hands on Mycroft’s hips. “We’ve only been together three months. We’re still figuring this out. It’s okay if something’s wrong.”

“I thought perhaps… Perhaps we came from two different worlds. I don’t know the music you listen to. You don’t know the music I listen to.”

“No. But I like to hear it.”

“You find it boring.”

“Some of it, sure. But sometimes it’s nice to sit with you and close my eyes and switch off. We like most of the same books and the same films.”

“We do. But you can’t read books together.”

“We like cooking together. I like listening to you when you tell me stuff. I like it when you’re passionate about something, even if I don’t understand it.”

“I can’t tell you even half of what I do with my day.”

“I know.” Greg kissed his cheek. “You think because we like different music and I like football and you like reading the newspaper that it changes stuff between us? You listen to me talk about football all the time, and I listen when you talk about politics. It’d be boring if we liked the same things. And you don’t need to prove anything at a party like this. No one cares what you do.”

“I think they care a bit.”

“Well, yeah, if you came naked they’d care a bit. But only because loads of them are policemen and there are laws about public decency and stuff.”

Mycroft laughed and took Greg’s hand. “You’re ridiculous.”

“I’m just pointing out the obvious, since you seem to be missing it right now.”

Mycroft nodded and squeezed his hand. “Then perhaps we should get another drink.”

Greg held up Mycroft’s former pint. “I have a drink. But you should definitely get one.” Greg kissed his lips. “You stay here, I’ll get it.”

Mycroft stood at the side of the room, watching Greg go to the bar, getting caught up in conversations along the way. He was in his element. He was sociable. People liked him. And it came naturally. But when Greg spun around, a glass of whiskey in hand, Mycroft knew all Greg saw was him.

He took the glass and stood at Greg’s side as he shared stories with his colleagues and discussed times gone by. Mycroft had little to say. But his mind didn’t drift from the conversations. He was far too interested in Greg’s life for that.

They stayed far longer than Mycroft had expected them to. The party was at its height at 10pm, groups of people dancing, children up long past their bedtimes playing cards on the floor. Mycroft had his glass enclosed in both hands as he observed them. For a split second he thought that these were the kinds of people he had sworn to protect when he joined the secret service. And then the thought made him wince, because he didn’t mean to sound superior, even to himself.

Greg got back from the toilet and made his way over to him, grinning. “Alright?”

“I’m drunk,” Mycroft informed him. “I feel drunk.”

Greg laughed and kissed his cheek. “Oh, I love drunk-Mycroft.”

“I tend to speak my thoughts aloud.”

“Yeah, that’s not just you that does that.” Greg put Mycroft’s glass down on the side. “Dance?”

“I can’t dance to this. It’s far too… up-tempo.”

Greg looked back at the stage. “Hey, Brockhurst!” he called out. “Something a bit slower, yeah?”

Sam winked at him as his band finished the song. Mycroft didn’t recognise what came on next, but he found himself being led to the dancefloor. “Is this one of the band’s songs?” he asked, letting Greg wrap his arms around his waist and pull him closer.

“No. Oasis.”

“Ah. Oh yes. I think I do recognise it. Do you like it?”

“Yeah, it’s alright. This song’s a bit of a classic.”

Mycroft rested his head against Greg’s shoulder. “I think I’ve heard it on the radio. Your friend sounds better.”

“I’ll be sure to let him know.”

Mycroft sighed and swayed with him, stroking his back. “I feel a bit… stuck in my head.”

“Yeah. I got that impression. It’s been a bit of a busy week, I guess.”

“It has been. I feel. I feel a bit like I’m losing my grip, Greg. Just a little bit, in different areas.” He felt a dull ache in his chest as he admitted that to himself. Somewhere, somewhere he hadn't even admitted to himself, he had feared he was losing Greg. That after the days they spent apart, they didn't meet in the middle as much afterwards. And there was something... something with his work, with his power... something wasn't quite right. He felt unsettled.

“Is it because your man got shot?” Greg asked.

“Perhaps. There’s so much I’m in control of. And small things… it feels as though things are slipping through my fingers. And I can’t…” He bit his lip, holding on more tightly.

“Mycroft?”

Mycroft shook his head. “I need to clear Sherlock’s name, Greg. As soon as possible.”

“Okay. We’ll talk about it tomorrow. We’ll talk about what we need to do next.”

“I hate football.”

Greg laughed. “Tell me something I don’t know.”

“I like listening to you talk about it.”

“Well, that’s good.”

“I could spy on you. If I wanted.”

Greg hummed. “Yep. I know. To be honest, I thought you did.”

“What did you think I did?”

“I don’t know. Maybe knew where I’ve been all day. Where my crime scenes are, if I went to Tesco or the cafe for lunch. I just… figured you knew. I don’t think you read my emails or texts, but I think you could if you wanted to.”

Mycroft stood up straight, frowning at him. “And you accepted that? That I could… spy on you with the touch of a button?”

“Yeah. I’ve got nothing to hide. I can’t hide from you. You look at me, and you know where I had lunch. What’s all this about?”

“I don’t know. As I said. Too much to drink. But I don’t spy on you. Anthea…”

Greg grinned. “Anthea spies on me?”

“A little bit, yes.”

Greg laughed and kissed him. “Our lives are bloody weird, Mycroft.”

Mycroft paused for a moment. “Weird. Yes, I suppose people would say it was weird.” He looked around the room. No one was even looking at them, they were so wrapped up in each other. “It doesn’t feel weird now. In fact, it feels completely ordinary.”

“Does that mean I’ve got you to myself this weekend then?”

Mycroft smiled. “England can wait, if that’s what you mean.”

Greg pulled Mycroft back to him. “Music to my ears,” he said softly. Nodding and swaying with him to the music, Mycroft could only agree.


	61. Homecoming

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for character death, mentions of miscarriages and cot death.

**May 2012.**  
**Location: Normandy, Paris.**

The farmhouse was quaint and in places, falling into disrepair. A stable door had fallen from its hinges, though it appeared as though it hadn’t been home to an animal in a long time. Inside, it was homely, smelling of spices and meats cooked in red wine.

Greg’s father, who may have once been a professional man with professional courtesies, had forgone many of them in his old age. He regarded Mycroft with a scathing expression when Greg’s attention was fixed elsewhere. Ordinarily, Mycroft would have given him the same contempt in return, but he chose not to.

It was a stark reminder of the compromises he made for this new relationship, where he would bite his tongue for Greg’s sake, and Christophe Lestrade’s sake. And Rosa’s sake, Christophe’s generous and warm partner who could give as good as she got, where her other half was concerned.

Christophe didn’t try very hard to hide his displeasure at their relationship. But Mycroft was certain he cared about Greg, and had Mycroft been a woman, he would have been welcoming and accepting. Instead, he was homophobic, as many people of that age were. It reminded Mycroft how his parents had been the exception, not the rule, when it came to their values on how two people could love one another.

Mycroft stood on the opposite end of the pond with Rosa, glancing occasionally to where Greg sat with his father with cigarettes and a drink.

Only a short while earlier, Christophe had asked Mycroft what his ‘intentions’ had been for his adopted son. It had stopped him in his tracks for a second, wondering how he could define something which he and Greg had long-since accepted. Instead, he told him: “I intend to spend the rest of my life with Greg, if he will have me that long.”

Christophe had softened after that, and with his relaxation came the subtle indications that he was a man not all that long for the world. Mycroft wasn’t sure what had given him that impression. Yes, he had been somewhat unsteady on his feet and unable to stand up for long. But there was a tiredness to his eyes when he was not looking at Greg, along with a final defiance in a man ensuring his son would be cared for when he was left alone again.

“Penny for them,” Rosa said, hooking her hand through Mycroft’s arm as though she was due to become his in-law.

“The trees. Do they have some sort of fungus?”

Rosa reached forward to run her finger over one of the decaying leaves. “Yes, I think so. I’ll have to ask my son to dig them up before they infect something else.”  
  
“I would offer, but I don’t think I have the clothes for it. Nor the skill, for that matter.”  
  
Rosa beamed at him and squeezed his arm. “Thank you for the offer, anyway. You and Greg are very handsome together.”  
  
Mycroft smiled, glancing across to his partner across the lake. They caught one another’s eyes, and Mycroft felt as though he had been struck by lightening, still disbelieving that a man like him could smile at him in that way.  
  
“It’s Greg who’s handsome,” Mycroft murmured, turning back to Rosa.  
  
“He is an attractive young man,” she agreed with a smile. “I lived in this village all my life, and saw Christophe and his wife the day they brought Greg here for a holiday. He must have been a teenager, I suppose, but he was a scrawny thing then. Brown floppy hair, and big brown eyes. My sons tried to encourage him to play with them, but I think he… I don’t know. It’s a strange memory to have, I’ve never mentioned it to him.”  
  
“What memory?”  
  
“He’s always been a good boy. His father adores him, though you wouldn’t know it sometimes, the way he grumbles about the divorces and suspension from work. But Christophe has high standards, and it’s difficult for a boy to live up to them sometimes. It’s strange, that a man as charming as Greg is, and so friendly with everyone… that he always locks himself away. And he did that with my sons, when they invited him to play. He was polite and said ‘maybe later’ but he never did. Are you a sociable man, Mycroft?”  
  
“I can’t say that I am, no.”  
  
“Well, you have each other.” Rosa patted his shoulder. “You should sit with them. I need to check on dinner.”  
  
Mycroft followed her around the lake, pulling a chair up beside Greg. He rested his hand on Greg’s arm, sharing a smile with him, laced with reassurance and familiarity. Christophe had certainly softened, aided by some alcohol and some time to get used to Greg and their relationship. But his questioning remained abrupt and probing. “Thought anymore about finding out about your birth parents?” Christophe asked Greg.  
  
Mycroft watched Greg out of the corner of his eye, a resigned look on his face. It was a topic Mycroft would never dare to bring up with him, but apparently Christophe had no such reservations.  
  
“Really?” Greg said. “Why do you always ask?”  
  
“I’m curious.”  
  
“As a matter of fact, yeah. I do know some things.” Mycroft instinctively reached for his hand and entwined their fingers, keeping an eye on Greg. He could see this was a long-standing issue, that for some reason it meant a lot to Christophe that Greg knew where he came from. “They’re both dead.”  
  
“I’m sorry,” Christophe said.  
  
“My name’s… Uh. Greg Knight. Mum was called Connie. And the bloke… shit, I can’t even remember.”  
  
“Jerry,” Mycroft murmured.  
  
“Right,” Greg said. “Well, he was a criminal apparently. And she was killed two days after giving evidence against him. So all in all, not a great lot.”  
  
“When did you find out?” Christophe asked.  
  
“A few years ago. I asked Mycroft to research it.”  
  
Christophe plucked a cigarette packet from his pocket, lighting one with shaking hands. Greg took one from the packet, gazing distractedly over the lake. He passed the cigarette to Mycroft without having a drag and Mycroft inhaled, pulling a face at the high tar content. He passed it back to Greg, who managed a smile at him in return.  
  
“So, why were you left in a hospital?” Christophe asked.  
  
Greg frowned, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “Um.”  
  
“I believe Connie Knight took him there because she was concerned about his safety,” Mycroft explained. “By all accounts, she seems to have been a fine woman.”  
  
Greg’s father smiled. “Must be genetic then, yes, Greg?”  
  
“I dunno. Cheers though.”  
  
Mycroft spoke on Greg’s behalf, answering questions about Jerry and his criminal activities. He squeezed Greg’s hand as he spoke, trying to assess Christophe’s motives. It was obvious Greg was uncomfortable, and yet Christophe persevered. Mycroft narrowed his eyes, trying to work out what was going on.  
  
“What did he get convicted for?” Greg asked Mycroft.  
  
Mycroft glanced at him. As he felt when he had told Greg about his family history the first time, his instinct was to protect him from the horrible truth of it. But he wouldn’t lie. “Attempted murder and robbery.”  
  
“Bloody hell,” Greg whispered. He stood up and stamped out his cigarette. “Sorry, I’m just gonna…” He squeezed Mycroft’s shoulder and began to walk back to the house.  
  
Christophe raised his eyebrows, stamping out his own cigarette. “I’m surprised,” he said. “I always assumed he had a young delinquent mother, but I thought perhaps they’d still be alive.”  
  
Mycroft raised his eyebrows. “Did you really think it would make a difference to Greg even if they were?”  
  
“No. Not really. I thought perhaps he’d have some long-lost siblings or someone somewhere. I just don’t like the thought of him being alone.”  
  
“He isn’t,” Mycroft reminded him. “He has me.”  
  
“For how long?”  
  
Mycroft narrowed his eyes. “I’m sorry?”  
  
“You broke up once before.”  
  
“Yes, we did, and it was my fault. But I know what I have in him. I know I’m lucky. I promise, you have nothing to worry about.”  
  
“He’s been divorced twice.”  
  
“It wasn’t his fault, either time. Relationships don’t always work.”  
  
“Perhaps I have a traditional view of marriage. Greg’s mother was my first relationship. She was everything. I love Rosa, as much as we can at our age. But a day doesn’t go by when I don’t look across that lake and see my wife.”  
  
“In the years Greg and I were apart, there wasn’t a day I didn’t think about him.”  
  
“Will you marry?”  
  
“I doubt it,” Mycroft said. “We haven’t discussed it, admittedly. But I don’t feel the need to share our relationship with the world. We have everything we need.”  
  
Christophe sighed. “Just there,” he murmured. “By that willow tree, I proposed. And she said ‘no’.”  
  
Mycroft glanced at him. “She did?”  
  
“She said ‘no’ four times, and I stopped proposing. She proposed to me. Very independent, my wife. She had to be, I suppose, to put up with me. I know I’m a difficult man.”  
  
“Stubborn though,” Mycroft said. “She may have said no, but you didn’t give up. I know it’s not genetic, but it’s a trait you and Greg both share.”  
  
“We do. But there comes a point where you… you have to let go.”  
  
Mycroft bit his lip, once again taking in Christophe’s shaking hands, his gaunt face, the way his eyes seemed to have lost all energy now Greg was no longer sitting with him.  
  
“How long have you got left to live?” Mycroft asked.  
  
Christophe swirled his drink in his glass, letting the words linger between them before he spoke. “Does Greg know?”  
  
“No. I don’t think so.”  
  
Christophe sighed and sat back in his seat. “Days, weeks, months. I’m not sure anymore. I lose track.”  
  
“Are you taking any medication?”  
  
“Just for the pain.”  
  
“You need to tell him,” Mycroft murmured. “You can’t just… just leave him like that. It shouldn’t be sudden.”  
  
“You and I both know what he will do, Mycroft. He’ll take time off work, demand to stay here. And I’d rather he didn’t. I have Rosa. I have painkillers. I have this house, and the memories of my wife. I’d rather remember Greg as he is with you, when he looks happy. Not in my last days with him fussing. He’s watched one parent die already. He doesn’t need that a second time.”  
  
“He was young then, when you lost your wife. He’s not young now.”  
  
“Even so. I won’t tell you not to tell him. It’s up to you. I won’t demand you keep a secret from him, because that isn’t right either. But I ask that you consider respecting my wishes. You’re not the one dying. I am. It should be my choice who knows.”  
  
“I think you’re making a mistake.”  
  
Christophe stood up, patted Mycroft on the shoulder and collected his walking stick. “You’ll take care of him, Mycroft,” he said before beginning his slow walk back to the house.  
  
Mycroft frowned after him before following him inside. He wrestled with telling Greg for the short walk to the house, until he finally decided to stay quiet for now.  
  
His chest felt tight all the way through dinner, even while he and Christophe debated French politics and by all rights, he was enjoying the discussion. But he was lying to Greg by omission. Wilfully pretending everything was fine, that Greg had nothing to be concerned about.  
  
They sat by the fire in the living room, a ginger cat curled up on Mycroft’s lap, showing its displeasure every time Greg got too close. Greg’s arm was wrapped loosely around Mycroft’s shoulders, a clear demonstration in the pride he had in their relationship, that Mycroft was someone deserving of being shown off to his family.  
  
Rosa chattered about the farmhouse and the plans for the summer, and Christophe grunted in the correct places. With the future unclear, Rosa had chosen to make plans anyway. It was as though she intended to keep Christophe going through her own strength of will, if nothing else. As though he would battle on, to fulfil those plans of hers.  
  
Mycroft found it uncomfortable though, listening to her discuss her hopes for the farmhouse and a future trip to Paris. Christophe would catch Mycroft’s eye, leaving the truth lying heavy on his heart.  
  
He struggled to sleep that night. He tried to read while Greg curled up beside him, snoring quietly. And even with the lights off, with his chest pressed to Greg’s back, he thought only of the future, of Greg losing the closest thing he’d ever had to family.  
  
He was already awake when Greg stirred beside him in the morning, nestling even closer. Mycroft smiled and kissed the top of his head, shifting so he could wrap his arm around Greg’s shoulders. Greg grumbled beside him, stretching over so he could check his phone.  
  
“What time are we being picked up?” Greg asked.  
  
“In about two hours. We’ve got time for breakfast first. Are you alright?”  
  
Greg nodded and stroked Mycroft’s arm. “Yeah. Yeah. Are you?”  
  
“Just thinking.”  
  
Greg looked up at him, brushing his thumb against Mycroft’s cheek. “Anything I can help with?”  
  
“No. I was thinking about my parents.”  
  
“Are they still angry at you?”  
  
“I don’t really know,” Mycroft admitted. “Perhaps. But I haven’t been in contact with them either. They don’t even know about us.”  
  
“They’d be fine with it, wouldn’t they?”  
  
“Yes, they’d be fine. We could end up in this holding pattern for years… and never say the things we should say unless something terrible happens.”  
  
“You should see them. When we get back to London.”  
  
“I will.” Mycroft kissed Greg’s forehead and slipped out of bed. “Your father is a good man. He’s been very accepting of… everything.”  
  
“Yeah. Yeah, better than I thought.”  
  
Mycroft bit his lip, turning his back to Greg. “Greg…”  
  
“Yeah?”  
  
He paused for a moment, shrugging on his dressing gown. He knew he should tell him. But Christophe was right. Greg would demand to stay behind, and Mycroft could not do the same in order to support him. Christophe had a right to decide what was best for himself. “Nothing,” Mycroft finally said, wishing he had remained oblivious to it all. “It doesn’t matter.”  
  
They ate breakfast on the grass outside before Mycroft’s driver arrived. He and Christophe didn’t murmur a goodbye as they shook hands, just held one another’s eyes in mutual acknowledgement before Mycroft got into the car.  
  
He watched as Greg went back into the house, and he could only hope it was to say something meaningful to his father.  
  
Greg remained quiet on the journey to Paris, falling asleep after half an hour of staring despondently out of the window. By the time they arrived in the city, he was back to himself and Mycroft pushed his concerns to one side so he could focus on his work.  
  
He joined the politicians in the afternoon, where they debated the kind of support they would provide in the Middle East. They agreed to vote together when it came to a future United Nations agreement to try to stabilise the region.  
  
After just one night in Paris, he and Greg travelled back to London. They went to Greg’s flat so he could collect some clothes. Mycroft was sat on his settee catching up on some emails when Greg’s phone rang.  
  
“Hi, yeah, it’s Greg. What’s…”  
  
He watched out of the corner of his eye as Greg’s face crumpled. Mycroft rose slowly to his feet, watching one silent tear drop down Greg’s cheek. He didn’t need Greg to tell him what had happened. That he had lost his father.  
  
Greg managed a quiet ‘thank you’ before he hung up and lowered the phone, placing it quietly down onto the side table.  
  
Mycroft reached him in just a few steps, and steered him into his bedroom and unlaced his shoes and helped him out of his jacket and trousers. Then he lay on his back, Greg’s head on his chest, and stroked his hair.  
  
They didn’t speak, for there wasn’t a lot to say. ‘I’m sorry’ didn’t cut it. And for all Mycroft would do for Greg, he couldn’t undo this. There was no magic wand. There was no miracle cure. It was one thing he simply could not control. He lay with Greg in his arms and held him and kissed away his silent tears.

* * *

He went with Greg to help to organise the funeral and then stayed at his side for the service. The day after they got back home, he drove to Gloucestershire.

It was mid-afternoon, the sun drenching his parents’ cottage in light. His feet crunched on the stone path leading up to the gate and he smiled to himself as he watched his father pulling weeds out of the flowerbed.  
  
“Good afternoon,” his father said with a wide smile, hauling himself up to his feet and pulling off his gardening gloves. “You must have had a good journey.”  
  
“Yes, not too much traffic.”  
  
“Your mother is indoors making a cake.”  
  
Mycroft nodded and walked up to the house, slipping his shoes off as he got inside. The smell of sweet cinnamon took him back to his childhood for a few moments as he walked to the kitchen. His mother had just taken some biscuits out of the oven and was laying them onto a cooling tray.  
  
“The cake should be cool enough if you want a slice,” she said, not turning round.  
  
“I’ll only cut it unevenly.”  
  
She looked at him over her shoulder and smiled at him. “Aren’t you a sight for sore eyes.”  
  
“Hardly.”  
  
She rolled her eyes but left her biscuits so she could clasp his shoulders and study him for a moment. “Well, you’re here, and that’s enough.” She kissed his cheek and then turned back to her food. “Make yourself useful and take out a cup of tea for your father. He’s been working very hard today, although he began pulling out the daffodil bulbs this morning and then he had to replant the whole lot of them.” She shook her head in despair. “Honestly, I thought he knew they would re-grow again, but apparently his fingers aren’t as green as I thought they were.”  
  
Mycroft smiled politely and turned the kettle on. “I thought you didn’t allow him to garden unsupervised.”  
  
“Well, I certainly won’t in the future.”  
  
Mycroft shot her an amused look before stepping aside so she could make the teas just as she liked them. Mycroft carried out the tray of drinks and fruit cake to the living room, where his father was already seated.  
  
“Is there anything new on Sherlock?” he asked as Mycroft sat down, taking a bite of the cake.  
  
“No, but he’s fine.”  
  
“And anything new with you?”  
  
“A few things. And you?”  
  
“New? With us? What on earth would be new with us?”  
  
Mycroft smiled as his mother walked in and took a seat. “Killing daffodils,” she announced. “That’s what’s new.”  
  
Mycroft’s father rolled his eyes good-naturedly. “They’ll be fine. I put them back exactly as they came out.”  
  
“We’ll see about that. So what is new, Mycroft?”  
  
Mycroft had a sip of the Earl Grey tea, crossing one ankle over the other as he began to relax. “I thought you should know that I’m seeing someone.”  
  
His parents exchanged a look before his mother raised her eyebrows at him. “And you’re actually telling us?” she remarked. “It must be serious.”  
  
“It is. Very.”  
  
“Don’t tell me you’re engaged already. It’s very poor form to propose before announcing your relationship to your parents.”  
  
Mycroft shook his head with a half smile. “No, we’re not engaged.”  
  
“What’s his name?”  
  
“You’ve already met him. Greg Lestrade.”  
  
“The nice-looking, polite man you were seeing and then broke up with.”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“Well, be more careful this time, won’t you? Honestly, Mycroft, you’ve been on your own for far too long, it’s about time someone took care of you. Heaven knows, you and Sherlock do a terrible job of looking after yourselves. How is my boy?”  
  
“He’s fine,” Mycroft said.  
  
“And when are we meeting Greg Lestrade?”  
  
“Soon, I suspect.” Mycroft shook his head. “I don’t know. It’s not a good time for him, his father just died.”  
  
“Oh, I am sorry. How is he?”  
  
“As good as can be expected, I suppose.”  
  
“I hope you’re taking good care of him.”  
  
“I’m doing my best.”  
  
“We’ve thought about clearing out your old bedroom,” his mother said. “It’s still full of your old schoolbooks and things, and we need some of the cupboard space.”  
  
“They don’t have any sentimental value for me,” Mycroft replied. “You can throw them away.”  
  
“I’d rather you checked first. I don’t want to throw anything away you might want later.”  
  
With a sigh, Mycroft put his cup and saucer down. “I’ll go and check now. I wasn’t planning to stay tonight.”  
  
“Stay for dinner at least, won’t you?”  
  
He nodded as he stood up. “I’ll stay for dinner,” he agreed, before going upstairs.  
  
He opened his door to his old bedroom, glancing around at the red walls before stepping inside. He closed the door behind him and took a seat at his old desk. He didn’t have any attachment to this room, not like he had back at Oak Manor, and he wasn’t expecting to find much of interest.  
  
He opened the top drawer and found only pens and stamps and envelopes. In the next drawer, he found some notebooks and an old pair of socks. The notebooks were mostly empty. He found an old school timetable, and a photograph of himself in his school uniform. He slipped the picture into his jacket pocket, because he thought Greg would have a good laugh over it, if nothing else.  
  
There was a knock on the door, and he called for them to come in. His mother put a cup and saucer down on the desk for him. “Did you find anything to keep?” she asked.  
  
“Only a photograph. Most of these notebooks are empty, so just throw them away unless you want to use them.” He bent down to open the third desk drawer and wrapped his fingers around a wad of papers. He raised his eyebrows as he skimmed his eyes over his old school reports. He handed them to his mother. “Evidence I was a model student.”  
  
She laughed and carried them to the bed. She sat down as she began to read them. “Mycroft applies himself to all his work,” she read aloud. “He really must try to socialise with his peers.”  
  
Mycroft huffed his amusement. “I’m sure they told you that every year, and it made little difference.”  
  
“Sherlock’s reports were worse. ‘Sherlock really must try to stop fighting with his peers’.”  
  
“Yes, well.” Mycroft had a sip of his tea. “Sherlock and I never knew how to find a happy middle ground.”  
  
“You’re in a relationship now.”  
  
“And yet the world continues to spin on his own axis.”  
  
“I always knew you would find someone. There’s nothing wrong with you, Mycroft. You just needed the right person who knows how to handle you.”  
  
“I don’t need handling.”  
  
“And that is exactly my point.”  
  
They watched each other for a few seconds before Mycroft returned to the bottom drawer. “You don’t want these essays, do you?” he asked, flicking through them.  
  
“I doubt it. Unless any of them is particularly worth holding on to.”  
  
“There’s nothing spectacular here. Nothing worth keeping.” He dumped the papers onto his desk and picked up the last notebook, flicking through it. He frowned as an envelope fell out, and he picked it up from the floor. It had already been opened, so he reached inside to take the letter out. “It’s from you,” Mycroft murmured. “Sherlock had got himself in trouble at school, and you wanted me to try to do something about it.”  
  
“What had he done?” she asked.  
  
“It doesn’t say. Though I suspect it was when-”  
  
“-When he almost blew up the science department," his mother finished for him.   
  
“Yes. I don’t know what exactly you thought I could do about it.” He straightened out the papers and began to put them back into the drawer.  
  
“Was I too hard on you, Mycroft?” she asked.  
  
He went still for a few seconds before pushing the drawer closed. He sat up slowly and had a long drink from his cup. “No harder on me than you were on Sherlock.”  
  
“You mean that negatively.”  
  
He glanced at her. “I don’t, actually,” he replied, trying to put a cork in the conversation before it could continue.  
  
“I was hard on you though. You were such a confusing child.”  
  
He pressed his lips together, busying himself with the papers. “Mother, I don’t really think…”  
  
“Two years before I had you, I had a little girl. We were with her for a month. And then she died. Cot death. I wanted another girl so badly and… well, it proved to be a boy.”  
  
“I must have been such a disappointment,” he muttered.  
  
“You weren’t a disappointment, Mycroft. But you couldn’t have been more different to when Sherrinford was born. You never cried. You slept all hours. I used to sleep in the same room, because I was so afraid. We used to wake you up so you would feed.”  
  
Mycroft glanced down at his knees. “I don’t need to hear this…”  
  
“I had three miscarriages in the intervening years between you and Sherlock and I all but gave up. Then he was born, and he was a sickly child. A noisy child too. We should have sent you all to schools but… I couldn’t bear to let any of you out of my sight. And then Sherrinford did what he did… I have always been too hard on you, Mycroft. I couldn’t understand why you wouldn’t stand up for yourself like they both did. I couldn’t work out why you preferred to spend days locked in your bedroom reading rather than playing sports like Sherrinford did, or playing music and doing science like Sherlock. You never joined in with our conversations at dinner. You just liked your dinosaurs and reading your novels. I know you had a torrid time of it at school. I’m sorry we kept you there and didn’t finish your schooling at home.”  
  
“Mother. I really don’t think going over this makes any difference.”  
  
“I just don’t want to lose another child, Mycroft. I’ve lost so many of them, and I’ve nearly lost Sherlock more times than I can bring myself to count. He needs you. More than I think he’d like to admit.”  
  
Mycroft sighed. “I’ve been there for him all his life. But he never chose me.”  
  
“I never understood why.”  
  
“For all the reasons you’ve listed, I imagine. He blames me for Sherrinford. He only likes me when I’m useful to him. And it annoys him that I’m useful so often.”  
  
“You are looking after him, aren’t you?”  
  
Mycroft nodded. “I’m looking after him.”  
  
“And Greg Lestrade is looking after you.”  
  
“Yes. Yes, Greg Lestrade is looking after me.”  
  
His mother nodded and stood up, walking over to him and kissing the top of his head. “Thank you for coming. It’s good to see you.”  
  
“You’re welcome.” He watched her go before leaning on the desk, letting out a long breath. He sent a quick text to Greg to ask to see him later before going through the rest of his things.  
  
After dinner and saying his goodbyes, he went to New Scotland Yard. Greg was working a late shift, and Mycroft found him at his desk. Mycroft put a cup of coffee down for him and Greg grinned. “This is a nice surprise.”  
  
Mycroft smiled and sat down opposite him. “How is work?” he asked.  
  
“Murder-free. So far. Touch wood and all that. I’m a bit behind on paperwork, so I’m catching up.” He tilted his head. “Are you okay?”  
  
“I’m fine,” Mycroft said. “I saw my parents.”  
  
Greg reached across the desk and Mycroft took his hand. “And?”  
  
“And… we’ve made up. Well, by ignoring the issue and without anyone actually apologising, but that’s par for the course.”  
  
“You look upset, love.”  
  
“Do I?” Mycroft asked. “I’m not.”  
  
Greg squeezed his hand. “But?”  
  
“Nothing.” He stood up and walked around the desk so he could bend down and give Greg a quick kiss on the lips. “Are you alright?” he asked.  
  
“Yeah,” Greg said. “I know I won’t finish until late, but do you want me to come to Crusader House tonight?”  
  
“Would you?”  
  
“Sure. I’ll see you later.”  
  
Mycroft smiled and kissed him again before going home. He wasn’t sure what it was he needed, but he found himself rummaging through the drawers in his office. Eventually he found a photograph of his family, minus Sherrinford, who would have been in prison by the time the picture was taken. He found a frame and stood it on the mantle, beside a picture of Greg and his adopted parents.  
  
He was already in bed, though struggling to sleep, when Greg got home and wrapped himself around Mycroft from behind. He smiled to himself as he took hold of Greg’s hand. “Thank you for coming.”  
  
“It’s alright. I wanted to. Not really feeling like being by myself much at the moment, to be honest.”  
  
“No. No, me neither.”  
  
Greg squeezed his hand. “Well, it’s handy that we’ve got each other then really, isn’t it?”  
  
Mycroft nodded. “Greg?”  
  
“Yeah?”  
  
“You know you’re not alone, don’t you?”  
  
“Yeah,” Greg whispered. “Yeah, I know.”  
  
Mycroft rolled over and pulled him close, and found he slept much more easily after that.


	62. A Dictatorship

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Every now and then the characters do things I wasn't expecting. This was one of them. And I'm happy that they don't always behave.

**June 2012.**   
**Location: MV Spirit Of Chartwell barge, The Thames, London.**

It was grey. The skies were grey, the river was grey, and it was drizzling. It was hardly the splendour the the Queen’s Diamond Jubilee had promised to be. Mycroft stood by the window on the lower deck of the boat, mobile phone in one hand, glass of champagne in the other. 

The Queen and other members of the royal family stood on the deck above, presumably getting damp and cold, even with the canopy above their heads. But the Queen would do her duty and stay outside for the whole procession, because that was what was expected of her. She would wave to the crowds on the banks, who could hardly see her through the rain, and try to pretend the day wasn’t thoroughly miserable. 

It wasn’t really. It was a marvellous occasion, the sort of which would only be possible in good old Blighty, where pomp and ceremony was applauded, mostly. And Mycroft had to think himself lucky really, to have got a place on board the royal barge. But indoors, not on the top deck where the royals had to stay. 

He looked to his right as Harry Pridmore from the palace fell into step beside him. “Any problems?” Harry asked.

“There’s a protest on the riverbank from a republican group, but it’s peaceful as far as I know.”

“No terrorist threats?”

Mycroft simply raised his eyebrows at him and Harry laughed it off.

“Right,” Harry said. “You couldn’t tell me even if there was.”

“Protecting this country’s national security tends to work better when it’s done in secret, I’m afraid. Though, I wouldn’t have willingly put myself in the firing line if I thought something was going to go wrong.”

Harry laughed and took a seat at one of the tables, gesturing for Mycroft to do the same. Tearing his eyes away from the river and the people cheering along the bank, Mycroft sunk down onto a seat opposite him, finishing the last of his champagne. He hadn’t seen Harry since Irene Adler caused her problems with the royal family, but he was a pleasant man, one who took a very narrow view on the world. The royal family was the centre of it, and that was all he cared about.

“I’m amazed you’re here at all,” Harry said, taking a bite from one of the canapes on the table.

“I wasn’t invited. But Hugh Seagroves is on holiday and he urged me to take the invitation.”

“But you came alone?”

Mycroft smiled. “My partner heard the word ‘Queen’ and went as white as a sheet. He couldn’t have come anyway, he’s a Detective Inspector for the Metropolitan Police, and so needed on the ground. This really isn’t his sort of thing. Are you here with anyone?”

“No, no, I’m married to the palace and my work.”

“Full-time occupation, I imagine.”

“Not everyone is discreet, Mycroft. It takes many years to earn their trust, and you ruin it by bringing someone else into your life. I’ll serve until I die.”

“They’ll retire you first.”

Harry smiled. “I’d like to see them try. I already know what jobs I’ll do when my legs and feet give me trouble. Even if I stuff envelopes for the rest of my life.”

“Hardly fitting for a man of your abilities.”

“Happens to the very best of us. We all get a bit useless.”

Mycroft hummed and accepted a fresh glass of champagne from the waiter as he walked by. 

Harry asked him for a cup of tea and watched him walk away before turning back to Mycroft. “Can I ask you something, Mycroft?”

“Yes, of course.”

“What do you know about phone hacking?”

Mycroft narrowed his eyes. “I know… of it.”

“By the press?”

“Not… not in terms of it actually happening.”

“Ah right.”

Mycroft frowned and sipped from his glass. “Why?”

Harry toyed with his cuff. “There was a story about the prince last week in the tabloids, and he’s sure someone can only have got it off his phone. We’ve tried to tell him it’s impossible but he’s convinced.”

“I haven’t heard of anything like that happening. That’s not to say it isn’t. There are rumours, mutterings, mostly. MPs asking how on earth the information got out but… in most cases they’ve been indiscreet.”

“The prince isn’t indiscreet.”

“Ever?” Mycroft asked. “You and I met because a member of the family was indiscreet.”

“Irene Adler was indiscreet. But admittedly, my client put herself into the position.”

“I can put some feelers out,” Mycroft said. “I don’t expect it’ll come up with much.”

“Maybe it’s nothing.”

“Maybe. But then, there’s rarely smoke without fire.”

* * *

Mycroft almost felt on the edge of drunk when he arrived home, unfastening his tie as he walked through his flat to the kitchen. He was waiting for the kettle to boil when he heard the key in the door and he smiled to himself, turning around to lean against the counter. 

“Mycroft?” Greg called out. 

“Here,” Mycroft replied. He listened to Greg’s footsteps and the sight of him almost took his breath away. “I didn’t know you had a uniform,” he murmured, his eyes skimming over his black police-issue vest, complete with epaulettes with two diamonds, the signifier that he had reached the rank of Inspector. Then there was his crisp white shirtunderneath, his black tie, the hat… And even though the trousers were loose-fitting and the shoes were ghastly… 

“I didn’t know you were interested in my uniform,” Greg said. 

“Nor did I,” Mycroft murmured, taking a step towards him. “Apparently I am. Very.” 

He stopped while there was still a foot of space between them, his lips parted as he continued to regard Greg’s uniform. Greg quirked a smile, stepping forward to close the space between them, stopping before their bodies touched. Mycroft inhaled sharply, transfixed. 

“You like this,” Greg murmured, a statement rather than question. He leaned forward, but rather than finding Mycroft’s mouth as he expected, he kissed the sensitive skin beneath his ear. 

“Yes,” Mycroft breathed out, his fingers twitching at his sides as he fought to stay still while wanting to reach out and grip Greg’s hips and pull him flush against him. He tilted his head, closing his eyes as Greg’s nose nudged against his neck and his lips brushed against his skin. 

Greg hummed out his own approval, a hand taking curling around Mycroft’s hip, nudging him closer. “Well, well,” Greg breathed out, nipping Mycroft’s earlobe. “This is unexpected.” 

“Mmm.”

Greg curled his hands around Mycroft’s. “You’re going to come with me,” he said, taking a step backwards. 

“Yes,” Mycroft whispered, letting himself be led from the kitchen and through the living room. He couldn’t tear his eyes away from Greg’s shoulders, somehow stronger than ever when emphasised by his uniform. 

Greg had to keep looking over his shoulder as he walked backwards, steering Mycroft around the settee en route to the bedroom. He pushed open the door and led Mycroft inside, stopping by the doorway. Greg’s eyes had darkened with unconcealed desire as he gave Mycroft a once-over. 

“It’s a fancy suit,” Greg murmured, his voice sounding different to normal, more authoritarian somehow, more controlled. 

“It was a formal occasion. With the Queen.”

“Turn around.”

Mycroft swallowed, and did so, letting his eyes fall closed as Greg’s hands rested on his shoulders. They skimmed down his arms, squeezing ever so often. And then his arms moved around Mycroft’s chest, searching, as though hunting for a concealed weapon. 

“I assure you, I’m not carrying anything.”

“I’ll make sure of that,” Greg whispered, moving his hands to Mycroft’s hips, his hands lingering for longer than they ever would have done if he were carrying out a genuine search. Mycroft heard Greg drop down to his knees, his hands coming to run over his buttocks, then down the inside of his legs. His fingers slipped around his ankles, and Mycroft looked down as his hands rubbed over the top of his feet. 

Greg got to his feet and pressed a kiss to the back of Mycroft’s neck. “You understand I can take no chances,” he whispered.

“You’re only doing your job,” Mycroft replied, his voice thick with lust. 

“Turn around.”

Mycroft did as instructed, feeling unusually small, stood in his socks compared to Greg’s thick police-issue shoes. 

Greg dipped his head to kiss Mycroft’s neck, unbuttoning his waistcoat. Mycroft only moved to incline his head to grant Greg more access. Greg took charge of undressing him, hanging his jacket and waistcoat over the back of a chair in the corner. 

“Unfasten this for me?” Greg asked, gesturing to Mycroft’s shirt. 

Mycroft swallowed and licked his lips, holding Greg’s eyes as he complied with somewhat unsteady hands. Greg took his shirt off for him, dropping it onto the chest of drawers in a way Mycroft would never have done himself. 

“Trousers,” Greg told him, and Mycroft did as he asked, letting them pool around his ankles without stepping out of them. 

Greg reached up to take his own hat off, dropping it down on top of Mycroft’s shirt. He pressed a kiss to Mycroft’s collarbone. “Finish undressing and get on the bed for me.”

Mycroft stepped out of his trousers and took a few steps until the backs of his knees hit the bed. He slowly sat down, taking off his socks and then his boxers, dropping them down onto the floor before lying on his back, his cock lying hard and untouched against his stomach. 

He watched as Greg took his shoes off, and then his vest, before he rested one knee of the side of the bed, his hand trailing up Mycroft’s arm. “Roll over.”

Mycroft held his eyes for a few seconds before doing as he was instructed, letting his cheek rest against the pillow. Greg straddled his thighs, and Mycroft could feel the cheap fabric of his trousers rubbing against his legs. That Mycroft was naked, _seen_ , completely seen, left him free of thought and concern. He left everything in Greg’s hands, finding it freeing to let the weight off the world shift from his shoulders. 

Greg palms were hot and firm against his back, soothing against tired muscles, letting him drift, eased by champagne and his lover’s presence. Greg peppered kisses down his spine, his tongue occasionally flicking out and leaving cool damp spots on his skin. He was only dimly aware of the drawer opening, too lost in Greg’s touch to give it much consideration. 

It wasn’t fulfilling a fantasy he had ever acknowledged, one where he was wholly in someone else’s hands. It was a man he trusted without question, a man who seemed to instinctively understand his limits and his needs. He was there, atop of him, a reassuring weight, but he didn’t pin him down. 

The power was in his ability to seduce, not claim. To allow Mycroft to give everything to him, without ever once feeling like it was dragged from him. 

Greg’s tongue flicked wetly between his cheeks, his buttocks spread with firm hands. He could feel Greg’s tie brushing against his thigh. He arched up to press himself against Greg’s mouth, biting back a desperate sigh as his index finger slipped inside, his tongue still flicking around his hole. 

He gripped the pillow, shuddering, stilling only when Greg’s hand pressed against his lower back. He wanted to press down against the sheets, to get some friction on his cock, but he obeyed the intent behind Greg’s hand, understood his motives, accepted them, embraced them. 

He found himself panting against the pillow as Greg worked him over with his fingers, readying him, moving with a delicious, purposeful slowness. Mycroft was delirious with pleasure, mostly unaware of his own moans of delight, unable to prevent himself from trying to press up against Greg’s fingers. 

His cheeks were hot, tinged red, he imagined, as he finally whispered out a desperate ‘please’. Greg’s fingers left his body, leaving him wanting. 

Greg eased him onto his back, and Mycroft wrapped his legs around his still-clothed waist, grasping at his shirt and curling his fingers into the fabric. 

Greg’s trousers and underwear were down around his thighs, and it added an illicit hue to the tableau. He pressed inside in one slow, skilled motion, his lips hot and wet against Mycroft’s jaw. 

“Oh God,” Greg grunted out, biting down on Mycroft’s neck, pausing momentarily as they each shifted to get more comfortable. 

Mycroft’s eyes met Greg’s and they stared at one another for a second before their lips met, off-target, Greg’s hand cupping Mycroft’s face to guide him into a more precise kiss straight after. They shared a gasp as Greg rocked his hips, hot breaths mingling between them. Mycroft tangled his fingers in Greg’s hair and gripped his arse with the other, fingertips digging in. 

Their lips would meet and retreat and then meet again without much precision. Mycroft’s nerves were alight. The slap of Greg’s skin against his, the wetness of their lips parting, Greg’s groans against his chin combined into some perfect chorus of bliss. He left a mark on Greg’s shoulder, and a trail of nails along his back. He drowned out Greg’s grunts with kisses and his own keening noise of pleasure as Greg’s hand finally found his prick. 

He tightened his thighs around Greg’s waist and he shuddered, his hips stuttering with every pulse of his orgasm. He gripped onto Greg, clinging to him, letting out another soft gasp as he came with some guttural groan. His eyes fell closed as he panted for breath, idly stroking Greg’s hair, until Greg pulled out of him and collapsed at his side, his shirt clinging to his sweaty skin. 

Mycroft curled onto his side, resting his cheek against Greg’s shoulder, settling only as Greg’s arm wound around him. Greg’s fingers brushed through his hair and he kissed the side of Greg’s neck, drained of any tension. 

Greg hummed and kissed Mycroft’s head before stripping off his clothes, leaving them in a haphazard pile on the floor. He brought Mycroft close to him, tangling their legs together. 

“Good day?” Greg asked.

Mycroft smiled, his fingertips searching over his partner’s newly-revealed skin. “No terrorist plots to speak of. Wet though.”

“Yeah, I got soaked through in the morning. Then I got moved to some executive tent, so ended up inside watching a load of rich bastards get drunk.”

“You should have joined me. I had champagne.”

Greg laughed before rolling off the bed to wander to the bathroom. “I wondered what got you so randy.”

Mycroft huffed out a laugh. “I wasn’t ‘randy’ before you got here.”

Greg chuckled before stepping into the en-suite, leaving Mycroft to clean himself up and then wrap himself up in a dressing gown. They had takeaway for dinner before watching the news, Mycroft massaging Greg’s worn-out feet. 

Mycroft’s phone woke them both at gone 3am, and in a daze, Mycroft managed to put it to his ear. “Mmm?”

“Sherlock’s contacting you,” Anthea said. “Via video. Can you access it on your laptop?”

“I should be able to,” Mycroft replied, hanging up. He kissed Greg’s forehead. “Go back to sleep,” he whispered to him before slipping out of bed and quickly putting on a dressing gown and toeing on his slippers.

He made his way to his office, ensuring all doors were closed, before settling himself behind his desk. He put some headphones into his ears so there was no chance Greg could hear Sherlock’s voice reverberating from the dead. He went through several encryptions before finally accepting the video. 

Sherlock’s face almost filled his screen, with Bill Tomlinson hovering in the background. He looked well, at least. 

“What time is it there?” Mycroft asked.

“5am. No time for smalltalk, Mycroft. We’ve heard rumours about some Saudi diplomats with links to Moriarty committing criminal activities in London. They’re wanted by police, but the police can’t touch them because they have diplomatic immunity.”

“What sort of links?” 

“Embezzling money and committing fraud. The money has come from various places in Qatar, which is where I am now. We’re talking tens of millions of pounds, which then went through Moriarty into some sort of elaborate banking system in Saudi Arabia. The money was then used to fund terrorist organisations in the Middle East and the Russian Government.”

Mycroft sat back in his chair and let out a long breath. “Wonderful,” he muttered. “We can’t just kill a Saudi diplomat.” 

Sherlock smirked. “Saudi royalty, some of them.”

“Even better. Alright, give me some time to think about it, I’ll see what I can come up with. Perhaps this is one piece of the puzzle we will have to leave as it is.”

“Can’t,” Sherlock said. “The money’s still in circulation. We’re trying to cut off the link here in Qatar at the moment.”

“And when you say cut off the link…”

Sherlock held up his index finger and thumb in the gesture of a gun. “Bill’s an excellent shot.”

“That he is. Fine. Give me a few weeks to see if I can tackle this by diplomatic means.”

“Laters.” Sherlock ended the call and Mycroft closed his eyes, frowning as he stared at his laptop screen. Disregarding protocol, he left a message for the Prime Minister and joined Greg in bed for a sleepless night listening to his partner snore, oblivious to the conflicts swimming inside Mycroft’s head.

* * *

The Prime Minister was cordial, understanding even. Of course Mycroft didn’t tell him about Sherlock, that simply wouldn’t have been proper. But he did explain the crimes of which the Saudi Diplomats were accused, and the pressure the British Government should put on Saudi Arabia to have their diplomatic immunity lifted so they could be tried in court. 

But the argument, in return, was simplistic and effectively the end of the conversation. “Saudi Arabia is the largest customer for British defence equipment,” the Prime Minister said. “Thousands and thousands of British jobs rely on our relationship with Saudi Arabia.” 

Mycroft sat at the Diogenes, contemplating the web of intricate lies and tales he had weaved to get what he wanted. On this, he thought, he was already defeated. Trying to solve this by legal means was a failed pursuit before it even got off the ground. 

A day passed, and still his next moves were unclear. 

But by the end of that day, Bill Tomlinson was dead. There had been an explosion. Their target was dead, but Bill got caught in the blast. Sherlock escaped, mission completed, but now he was trying to escape Qatar without detection. And then enter Saudi Arabia. 

Mycroft stared around at his staff in the Coeur de Lion from the doorway to his office. He exchanged a look with Anthea from across the room, who asked for everyone’s attention.

“I’m afraid we’ve just received some bad news,” Mycroft murmured. “Bill Tomlinson has been shot and killed while on a mission.”

His eyes flicked to Erin Bareford, who clasped a hand to her mouth. “No,” she whispered.

Mycroft looked away from her, not able to watch the grief on her face. “Bill was one of the finest agents I’ve ever worked with. I’ve known him for more than 15 years. He was one of the very best of us.”

He watched as Erin leapt from her seat and fled from the room, tears running down her cheeks. 

Mycroft glanced around at the faces of his employees, their expressions filled with shock, sadness, and an understanding which only came from those who knew what it meant to sign over to the secret services. “I understand Bill was well-liked in this office. And if anyone needs to take some time… Then take it tonight and get on with your jobs tomorrow. Please go home, if that’s what you need to do.” Mycroft turned to walk into his office.

“Are you alright?” Madhubala Selling asked him. 

Mycroft turned back to look at him. “No,” he said truthfully, before walking into his office. He was joined by Anthea a few minutes later. “Erin,” Mycroft said. “I didn’t realise she and Bill were…”

“Yes,” Anthea said. “Neither did I.”

“I suppose they are secret service. They each know-knew how to cover their tracks.”

“Do you need to me to put a special detail on her?”

“Yes please,” Mycroft said. “We can’t have her going to the press. I doubt she will but… we can’t take the risk anyway.” 

“Consider it done. Are you sending anyone out to Sherlock?”

“Not at the moment. He has to keep a low profile, and covertly moving one person from Qatar to Saudi Arabia is difficult enough with the added security. He’ll be fine.”

Anthea silently took his mug from him and went to make him a cup of tea. Not for the first time, he considered pulling Sherlock out of there. Perhaps they could hide him in the countryside somewhere, Mycroft was sure he could keep his head down for a while… 

It seemed a good option, the more he thought about it. Of course, they’d have to clear his name first, because one sighting of him and he would be going through the court system, tried for Moriarty’s murder - and others. A conviction was highly probable, and then he would be in jail. And in jail… in jail, one of Moriarty’s former associates could easily get to him and slice his throat open. 

Despairing, Mycroft asked Greg if they could have dinner and then joined him at Petty France. 

One look at Greg’s face told him he’d had as bad a day as Mycroft had. 

“Fucking Attorney General won’t look into Sherlock’s case," Greg told him, as Mycroft took a seat beside him on the settee. “Not enough bloody evidence.” 

Greg handed over his phone so Mycroft could read the one-line email. _We will not be reviewing the case due to insufficient evidence._

“Damn,” Mycroft said, handing his phone back. “Damn.” He stood up and walked to the window, staring outside. His plan hadn’t really been feasible anyway, not in the short-term, but now he would have to wait even longer. 

“What now?” Greg asked. “Mycroft?”

He couldn’t do this, he thought his chest tightening. He couldn’t make the pieces fit together, he simply could not be successful. He’d done so well to get this far, to keep Sherlock alive, to ensure they were beginning to dismantle Moriarty’s network. But he could see Moriarty in his mind, a smug, unhinged smile on his face. He was winning. Every step they took, Moriarty was still mocking them, even from beyond the grave. 

“I need to make a phone call,” Mycroft managed before heading for Greg’s bedroom. He sunk down on the edge of the bed, and listened to it ring for three times. 

“If you want me to stay safe, it’s better not to call me,” Sherlock hissed down the phone.

“I can’t get you out.”

“I didn’t expect you to.”

Mycroft frowned. “No, I mean… I thought about it. I was thinking about it, but I can’t. You’re on your own, Sherlock.”

There was a long pause. “You’re not sending another agent," Sherlock said. 

“It’s too dangerous. For you and whomever I sent.”

“It’s fine. I can do this better alone.”

“You can’t come home either. The Attorney General isn’t even looking into the case.”

Sherlock snorted. “Did you seriously think you could snap your fingers and make it happen? Of course he won’t. I’m a serial killer, remember? You ensured that.”

“Look-”

“-No, you look. It’s fine. I’m almost at the border of Saudi Arabia, I’ll just cross the...”

“Don’t be an idiot! You have to stay where you are. It’s not safe there, not at the moment.” 

“I can’t stay here. One of the men survived the bombing. They’re heading into Saudi Arabia, and if I don’t get him then…”

“Then what?”

“Well, I don’t know what he’s working on but I’m pretty sure it’s not world peace.”

Mycroft gripped the phone. “I can try to extract you.”

“No, you can’t. Just leave it.” A pause and then... “You’re having second thoughts,” Sherlock said.

“I need to get you home,” Mycroft whispered. 

“No. No, I need to do this. I need to keep them safe.”

Mycroft frowned and stared down at his knees. He knew who ‘them’ were, and it included Greg, but it didn’t make him feel any better about it. “They may already be safe…”

“Moran is on to you, don’t you see that? He’s still watching and he can take you out.”

“How do you know?”

“I pick things up out here. He’s watching John. I assure you of that.”

“Then why hasn’t he-”

“-Made a move? Because I think he knows I’m alive. And he thinks if he kills John then he’ll have a harder time drawing me out.”

“Why not send someone to kill you?”

“Because it’s more fun when he gets to do it himself. I have to go.”

“Sherlock… just…” He sighed. “Stay safe.”

There was a long pause. “Bill was a good man,” Sherlock said and then hung up. Mycroft lowered the phone and cradled it in his hands. He rose from the bed and took a long breath to compose himself before rejoining Greg in the living room. 

He sat on the opposite settee, looking past Greg to the bare wall beyond him. He wanted to tell him the truth. He wanted to tell Greg everything, so someone would understand. So someone could tell him he wasn’t a bad man. So someone could hold him and reassure him that he hadn’t just led his younger brother into a battle he could not win.

“You alright?” Greg asked.

“Fine.”

Greg clearly did not believe him, but he finished his beer and stood up. “Want a drink, love?” he asked. 

Mycroft couldn’t open his mouth to respond. He tried to smile, but every part of him felt too numb to move. Greg reached him and touched his fingers to Mycroft’s temple. The small touch reassured him a little and he watched Greg move into the kitchen. 

Greg made him a cup of tea, and Mycroft stared at the stripy mug, not registering much else. 

_What now_? he thought. _What next_? His options were running out. He stood and walked to the window, staring outside into the street. 

He was keeping a nation safe. He had put his brother into the firing line. He would pull his brother out of there in an instant if he could. He couldn’t. Never in his life had he felt so trapped. He could come up with infinite schemes and plans, but none of them would suffice. With a win on one hand, he would lose on the other. There was no middle ground. 

For the first time in his life, he wished he had no power to make decisions. He wished he could sit and watch the news, and bemoan the decisions others had made without knowing how much he had orchestrated in the background. He wished he didn’t have the heads of the security services on speed-dial. He wished he didn’t have the nation’s most secret files at the touch of a button. 

He longed to be oblivious. 

“What can I do?” Greg asked.

Mycroft didn’t reply. The answer was nothing. There was nothing he could do, even through a want to try. 

Would Mycroft have done the same with Greg’s life as he had done with Sherlock’s? Sent him out into battle with terrorists and criminals and fraudsters and world leaders who didn’t give two damns if they were wanted at The Hague for war crimes?

Hypothetical wonderings were pointless. Yet wondered them he did anyway. His love for Sherlock, for Greg, was a fundamental weakness. 

‘Look after Sherlock’, his mother had said, because their elder brother was a terrorist, and because Sherlock would pluck a frog from the pond and kill it so he could dissect its body, and his parents thought they would turn out just like Sherrinford.

Because Sherlock would burn himself on purpose, just to see what happened. Because Sherlock didn’t care about upsetting people’s feelings, and because Sherlock could only have been five years old when someone first suggested he was a psychopath. 

He wasn’t. He wasn’t even a high-functioning sociopath, he was an ordinary human being, with a gift for intelligence, who claimed he was a sociopath. Didn’t Mycroft teach him that? ‘Don’t feel anything, little brother. Don’t care for anything. It’ll blind you to the truth. Caring is not an advantage’. 

He looked in the window and saw Greg’s reflection in it. In a heartbeat, he could destroy everything Greg knew to be true. 

_Sherlock is alive. All that work you have been doing to clear his name? Technically all the paperwork is sitting in my drawer at the office, and it was a waste of time you even bothering. And by the way, I killed my brother. No, not Sherlock, the other one, oh yes, I didn’t tell you about him, did I? Yes, he was alive long enough to have an enormous impact on my life, and my family, but I thought it better not to mention it._

Greg rose from the settee and made his way across the room. He reached out and touched Mycroft’s shoulder. 

_Don’t you know_? Mycroft thought. _Don’t you know that every time you touch me, you make it a little bit harder to do the things I do? Don’t you know that when I see you, the death of one member of my staff breaks my heart? I can’t even call it collateral damage anymore, and it’s your fault, because you reminded me what it’s like to care and to feel. And don’t you know, Greg Lestrade, that sometimes I give orders that are reprehensible, and perhaps I am the one who should appear at the International Court Of Justice?_

 _Yes, Your Honour, I am guilty. I had a weapons manufacturer killed, and then covered it up. Yes, Your Honour, I ensured the Government bought military aeroplanes knowing they would probably break down. And yes, soldiers died because of my actions. Did I know that was a possible result? Of course I did, I am a genius, and I always know the likely outcomes._

And did he expose himself to weakness by caring for Sherlock and caring for his parents and caring for Greg? In that he was guilty too, and he held his hands up. 

_Yes, Your Honour. I turned myself into a deity. I ruled over an empire of espionage and secrets and became the dictator of a nation without anyone even realising._

He had done it because he thought it was right. He did it because once upon a time, his own flesh and blood walked out into the night and taught people how to make a bomb, and the bomb exploded and people died. And he thought that if he could be the eyes and ears for a nation, then he could stop it happening. What kind of fool was he? 

Greg’s arms wrapped around his middle and Mycroft took hold of his hands. He stared at their reflection in the window. 

It didn’t matter. He would still do all he could to rescue Sherlock. _Forgive me_ , he thought. _Because I would do whatever it took to save my brother’s life._

“We need to clear his name,” Mycroft whispered.

“I know. We will.”

“It’s vital.”

“We’ll do it,” Greg said. “You and me. We’ll sit down and we’ll do it.”

Mycroft turned into Greg’s arms and clung to him. He was led to bed and undressed and held by his lover. 

His last thought, before sleep took him, was to wonder how a dictator’s wife felt. Eva Braun, Rachele Guidi, Lucia Hiriart. Did they know what Hitler, Mussolini, Pinochet did? Or did they live an endless lie, where their husband’s actions could only be right and just? 

Mycroft wasn’t sure where ‘right’ and ‘just’ began or ended anymore.


	63. Information Overload

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If I haven't mentioned lately how much I love all you readers and comment-writers... I love you guys!

**July 2012.**  
**Location: Riyadh, Saudi Arabia.**

If Mycroft had learned anything during his time as head of the Coeur de Lion Offices, it was that a quiet day could often unravel into the most tumultuous of evenings. A quiet week, then, was was a concern rather than something to be savoured.

He would eye Watchtower with a sceptical expression, wondering if all those green dots were a lie. That they would soon turn to orange and then red. Message after message scrolled down his screen, each telling him MI5 had stopped a terrorist plot in its tracks, that someone had been arrested that day. But the success rate was alarming rather than a comfort.

He sat on his laptop at the British Embassy in Saudi Arabia, in the corner of a busy room too full of chatter for his liking. He kept one eye on the door, mentally ticking off the names Anthea had provided him with.

He glanced back at Watchtower. England still stood. Nothing concerning was happening at all. The country was on heightened security, with the Olympics on their way, and so far everything was going to plan. He read file after file, newspaper website after website, and still he couldn’t find the one thing that was wrong. With an over-abundance of information, he was drowning in it.

And so he couldn’t put his finger on what it was which made him so feel so ill at ease.

“Might be just being in this country,” Jim Braum suggested as they drove back to their hotel that evening. “Last time you were here…”

Mycroft shot him a warning glance. “I was drugged, I remember.”

Jim shrugged and looked out of the window. He was on Mycroft’s personal security detail, which meant he had become his shadow in the process. It wasn’t that Mycroft wasn’t grateful, he was. But he missed having Anthea around to bounce ideas off. Jim just did not understand things on her level, but after what happened last time, Mycroft couldn’t take the risk of Anthea showing her face in the country.

The next morning, he was seated in a meeting two chairs away from the Prime Minister. He listened in silence to the various weapons deals, and managed not to raise an eyebrow at the flattery towards Saudi Arabia, a nation which gave its women few rights and killed those who dare oppose their rulers.

“We would like you to support our election to the UN Human Rights Council,” the British Prime Minister said. “I believe we’re a few votes down, and if we could count on your support, it would help immeasurably.”

Mycroft lifted his head from his papers. Of all the agreements to be made, this was not one he had been told about in advance.

“Well,” the Saudi Prince replied with a laugh. “We cannot do something for nothing.”

The Prime Minister smiled, polite and affable as he nodded and sipped his water. “I’m sure we can come to some arrangement,” he said, his words full of unspoken promises.

The two men regarded one another for a moment before the Prince began to smile in return. “We will arrange for your diplomats to come with an arrangement with ours,” he agreed.

They shook hands before everyone packed to leave the room. Mycroft waited until the Saudis were gone before closing the door when it was just him and the Prime Minister alone together.

“You can’t support this country in its bid to join the Human Rights Council,” Mycroft warned. “Do I need to list its human right violations? If this deal ever gets out…”

The Prime Minister waved his hand dismissively. “It won’t get out, will it? These are secret meetings. Unless you plan to say something?”

Mycroft straightened, finishing the last of his water before dropping the bottle in the bin. “It’s not my style to spill state secrets.”

“Then we are at an impasse.”

Mycroft shook his head. “Don’t tell your diplomats to make this deal. I am urging you…”

The Prime Minister took a step towards him. “I invited you here out of courtesy. Because you were taking an interest in our dealings with Saudi Arabia, and I know you have a way of bending people to your will. But you are not here as an adviser.”

“Giving Saudi Arabia just one vote for a place on the Human Rights Council is an abomination and makes a mockery of the entire system.”

“We need them, Mr Holmes. Do you have any idea how much security information they provide?”

“And at what cost?” Mycroft asked. 

“Protecting our people.”

Mycroft shot him a wry smile. “They provide just enough information to keep you and the secret services happy. But don’t believe for a second that the United Kingdom is the only body it provides that information to.”

“Don’t speak to me like I’m an idiot,” the Prime Minister snapped at him. “I’ll forget we had this conversation. I suggest you return home immediately.”

Mycroft watched him leave, and waited for the door to close before smacking his hand against the wall. He leaned on the table, taking one long breath. He hadn’t meant to lose his temper, but he read too many reports from Saudi Arabia to not resent doing deals with them. Someone had to say something, and he feared no one else would stand up to the Prime Minister when he was about to do something ridiculous. But still, he knew he should have handled himself better. 

It was a moment of weakness on his part. A flash of humanity, a glimpse that he was not always as composed as he should be. But he would chastise himself for it later. 

He took hold of the paperwork left on the table and brushed it all into his briefcase. For the briefest of moments, he considered calling Oliver Cale and telling him everything.  
Instead, he straightened up, turned off the lights and told Jim to take him to the airport.

* * *

 Even spending the next 24 hours with Greg, sharing a bed and sharing breakfast and dinner didn’t help to alleviate that feeling in the pit of his stomach that something wasn’t right.

He lay on his back, staring blankly up at the ceiling while Greg snored beside him. He turned his head to look at his partner, face smushed against the pillow, fingers curled in the covers.

Mycroft reached for his laptop and sat up, putting the brightness onto its dimmest setting. Greg didn’t even move.

He checked Watchtower again. He flicked through every newspaper site. He read his latest emails, read the reports from MI5, MI6 and GCHQ. He skim-read the latest reports foreign diplomats were making.

“Something wrong?” Greg mumbled from beside him, squinting into the light.

“No. No, nothing. Go back to sleep.”

Greg grunted and rolled over onto his other side, leaving Mycroft to read his Olympics security strategy again. But still, he did not feel as though he knew everything he needed to know. He was sure he was missing something.

He closed his laptop and lay back down, but he felt as though he was being suffocated by his own lack of knowledge. There was so much happening, bombs and plots and deals and treaties, and he couldn’t see how they linked up. There were no patterns he could discern. He was stood in the centre of a swirling vortex of data… and there was so much there he could hardly breathe.

Eventually he fell asleep, though Greg woke him up again a few hours later with his nightmares. They lay together as the sun rose, both unable to return to sleep, but neither with anything to say.

Greg stayed at Crusader House for the next four days, and Mycroft’s housekeeper kept the fridge stocked with enough food for two. When Mycroft returned home in the middle of the day to pick up some files he’d left there, his cleaner Mrs Lunden didn’t seem in the least surprised to have found some extra clothes to be taken for dry-cleaning.

But Greg’s nightmares continued. They woke them both up every night, and it was another thing on a long list that Mycroft wished he could fix with the click of his fingers. He felt so helpless, feeling Greg shake in his arms and promise he was fine when he was clearly anything but.

“Your nightmares are getting worse again,” Mycroft said over dinner, finally unable to keep his feelings on the matter to himself. “I’ve been doing some reading.”

“Oh right?” Greg replied.

“Fostered children are twice as likely to suffer from Post Traumatic Stress Disorder than American war veterans, according to a study.”

“Is that right," Greg muttered.

“It showed 18 per cent of fostered children who had experienced no abuse whatsoever still showed symptoms of PTSD. Perhaps as a result of sign of real or perceived parental abandonment.”

Greg lifted his head. “Mycroft…”

“I’m not implying your most recent bout of nightmares has anything to do with your Post-Traumatic Stress, but it’s worth looking at the two together. I recommend-”

“-I don’t have PTSD.”

Mycroft raised his eyebrows.

Greg pointed at him. “Don’t look at me like that.”

“I’m merely suggesting you discuss the two issues with a doctor. You could easily be part of that 18 per cent, and clearly suffered with it after the Jamall Milone case and-”

“For God’s sake!” Greg snapped, dropping his knife and fork down onto his plate. “I didn’t ask for you to do this. Don’t treat me like a bloody statistic. You are not my doctor-”

“-Then perhaps you should visit one.”

“I am fine! I am completely fine.”

“You have had a number of traumatic experiences in your life-”

“-Stop trying to treat me like a walking diagnosis! Bloody hell. Mycroft. Shut your mouth right now.” Greg pushed the chair out from the table, swigging back the last of his wine and standing up.

Mycroft sat still, watching him. “I’m worried about you.”

Greg folded his arms. “You’re always worried about me. It’s natural. But you don’t need to act like there’s something wrong with me.”

“Perhaps if we can work out the root of the-”

“-It’s because I worry about you, you stupid bastard. When you go away I worry about you. Do you think me talking about that is going to make a blind bit of difference?”

Mycroft frowned. “You worry about me.”

Greg stared at him. “Yeah, of course I do. What do you think I do?”

“Well I… what is there to worry about?”

“What is there to worry about? Are you flipping kidding me? Mycroft, have you seen your back in the mirror lately?”

“That is not going to happen again.”

Greg rolled his eyes and slowly sat back down at the table, pushing his plate to the side. “Can you guarantee that? Can you look at me and say 24 hours a day, you’re never in danger? You’re never gonna get hurt?”

“How can I promise that? I could get run over by a bus.”

Greg rolled his eyes. “Oh brilliant. That’s brilliant, that is.”

“I don’t understand the problem. Everyone is as risk of dying every day, if you look at the numbers-”

“-I don’t want to look at the bloody numbers! I want to look at the fact that you have torture scars across your back, and a bloody cigarette burn for fuck’s sake!”

Mycroft scoffed. “Oh for goodness sake, I can’t help what Sherlock did when he was high.”

“I’m not talking about the cigarette burn Sherlock gave you, I’m talking about the one from the fucking diplomat, when you were supposed to be safe and negotiating in New fucking Delhi.”

Mycroft’s chest clenched. He’d nearly given everything away… one slip of the tongue… “Oh. Right, of course. Yes, well, some of those meetings can get quite intense.”

Greg sighed. “Mycroft, when you go away, I sit here and just hope you’re coming home to me in one piece and not in a body bag.”

“Well, actually, it would be a coffin not a…” Greg raised his eyebrows. “Right. Yes. Not the point.”

“No, it’s not the point. I worry about you. I have nightmares about you dying. So don’t sit there and throw stats about, about how my childhood makes me more prone to PTSD or whatever it is you’re saying.” Greg sighed and reached across the table, stopping just short of taking Mycroft’s hand in his own. “Mycroft, I accept your job. I accept it’s dangerous. I accept it all, I love you for it. But what happens in my head is not because I was adopted or whatever you’re suggesting. It’s because I care about you. Do you get that Mycroft Holmes? Are you listening to me? Because I care about you. By choice. Because you’re brilliant. I care about you and I worry about you, and that is my choice. I choose to give a damn about you. So don’t turn around and deduce me.”

Mycroft bit his lip, swirling his wine in his glass. “You’re the first relationship I’ve ever had. I’m not used to this… depth of feeling about me.”

Greg touched his arm. “I know that. But think about how you feel about me for a second, Mycroft. Are you thinking about it?”

“Yes,” Mycroft whispered.

“I feel that way about you too.”

Mycroft looked down at the table, closing his eyes, unable to comprehend it. He was absolutely certain no one had ever felt this way about him before. And something was building. It was all so quiet. He was just waiting, waiting for something to go wrong, for it all to unravel… He looked up at Greg, who was sitting patiently, a concerned expression on his face.

“How do you bear it?” Mycroft asked him.

“The same way you do.”

Mycroft looked past him to the wall. He didn’t bear it. He thought about Greg more than he wanted to, he was there in the back of his mind through every decision he made…

“Mycroft,” Greg said. “Mycroft. Don’t do that. Stop thinking, right now, switch your head off, come on. Don’t freak out on me now.”

Mycroft met his eyes. “It makes me so weak, Greg. In their eyes, this… sentiment makes me weak.”

“Shut up.”

“Do you think they’d treat me the same if they realised I cared this much? If they knew that sometimes I feel like my head is spinning and all I want is to be here with you rather than talking to the Prime Minister and talking about strategies for coping with nuclear war? Because you don’t know what I’ve done, Greg. When I’ve done the mathematics and the logic and I’ve sacrificed people for the sake of this entire country. And you make me weak, Greg. Because I can’t sacrifice you. I would see you saved even if it meant thousands died. Even if it meant millions died.”

Greg stared at him for a second before shaking his head. He pushed the chair back, the legs scraping on the floor, before storming to the living room. “I do not want to hear that,” he called back. “Don’t you dare fucking say that.”

Mycroft swallowed and followed him. “But it’s true.”

Greg spun around to face him. “There’s a greater good, Mycroft. One person - one me - is not worth the lives of millions of people.”

“Then how would I go on without you, knowing I sacrificed your life? Neither of us believe in heaven or hell. You die, and that’s it. And if you die then I die with you.”

“I won’t let you let me live if it means killing more people. I’m telling you, right now. If it ever gets to that, then you call me and you tell me you love me and then you let me die. That’s what I want. That’s how I want to go.”

“Greg.”

“Mycroft. I want to die in your arms when we’re old and have white hair and we’ve been together for 40 years. That might not happen. I know that. But don’t you ever, ever think I’m worth more than someone else just because of what you feel about me.”

The tightness in his chest didn’t ease. And the thought of losing Greg made it even worse, but he knew Greg was right and he was being irrational because he couldn’t see the bigger picture. He didn’t even know what the bigger picture was anymore, he was just waiting for something… But maybe nothing was going to happen. Perhaps he could let down his guard. Or perhaps he had to concede he simply could not control everything.

“For the greater good,” Mycroft agreed.

“The greater good. We’re on the same side.”

“I suspect this is not an argument most couples have.”

Greg started to smile. “No, it definitely isn’t. But our relationship is a bit weird like that.”

“I’m sorry I brought up your nightmares. I was concerned.”

“I know. Just… don’t do it like that next time, yeah?”

Mycroft smiled and sat down on the settee, pleased when Greg sat beside him and kissed him. They pressed their foreheads together, Mycroft closing his eyes.

“Mycroft?”

“Mm?”

“What are you prepared to do to save people’s lives?”

Mycroft pulled back to look at him. “Whatever it takes.”

Greg stroked his thumb against Mycroft’s cheekbone. “I don’t even understand the choices you must make sometimes. But you don’t need to lock it away.”

Mycroft nodded and pressed their lips together. He rested his hand on the back of Greg’s head, savouring the feel of his soft, pliant lips against his, the brush of his stubble against his cheeks. They’d been together six months, but the desire to be close hadn’t gone away. He could forget everything else when he had Greg pressed up close to him, feel his hands on his cheeks as he cradled his face.

He took hold of Greg’s hand and gave it a brief squeeze. He nodded his head towards the bedroom and Greg answered by standing up and leading Mycroft there.

Mycroft flicked the light on and they both undressed before slipping under the cool covers together, chest to chest, their legs tangled together.

“Are you okay?” Greg asked, stroking Mycroft’s cheek.

“Yes," he lied quickly. He frowned. "Mostly. I think so.”

“Not like you not to be sure about something.”

“There’s… things on my mind.”

“Things you can talk about?”

Mycroft sighed and kissed Greg’s cheek. “Yes, some of it, but I don’t know how to verbalise it.”

“What can I do for you?”

“I don’t know. I want to be with you but I don’t think I can… perform.”

Greg smiled and kissed his cheeks and then his forehead. “It’s okay. Hey, lie there for a sec.”

He kissed Mycroft quickly before getting back out of bed, pulling a dressing gown on before leaving the room. He came back with a bottle of wine tucked under his arm, two glasses in his hands and a pack of cards between his teeth.

Mycroft laughed and began shuffling the cards while Greg poured the wine. They spent an hour playing Blackjack and then Bullshit, followed by a quick round of Snap.

A combination of the wine and a more relaxed atmosphere helped Mycroft fall quickly to sleep, one arm draped over Greg’s chest.

* * *

**August 2012.**

**Location: The Olympic Park, Stratford, London.**

So many years of preparation had gone into this. Millions of pounds, security work Mycroft could no longer remember doing, and finally the Olympic Games were underway. He had Greg sat on one side, Anthea on the other, and he was proud. So far, so good. People had praised the Games. They applauded the armed forces, the volunteers, the athletes, the organisation.

It mattered, Mycroft thought as the first gun went off for that evening’s athletics. It mattered, even while he wasn’t interested in the sport itself.

A few days later, he took Jim Braum and Anthea back to the stadium. He found their seats by the start line.

“What are we doing here?” Anthea asked, looking around. “Is the security okay?”

“It’s fine.” Mycroft pointed to the big screen. “Look there.”

She followed his gesture and he saw the slow smile spread over her face. _Sarah Attar_ , it said. Saudi Arabia’s first female athlete. And a lot of the work to get to this point had been Anthea’s.

“You should be proud of what you’ve achieved,” Mycroft murmured. “You did a lot of work on this. It matters, what you’ve done.”

“It’s amazing, Anth,” Jim said, patting her shoulder. “I remember you talking about this years ago.”

She turned back to Mycroft. “Sometimes we win,” she said. “Sometimes.”

“Small steps,” he agreed.

She smiled, but it fell a little as she studied him. “Are you okay?”

Mycroft passed his programme to Jim and stood up, ignoring the question. “Stay and enjoy the rest of the races. I’ll see you back at the office later.” With one last look as Sarah Attar crossed the finish line, he wandered back to the car.

* * *

He was in the car the next morning when he saw the front of one of Magnussen’s newspapers. _Request to re-open Sherlock Holmes’ inquest denied._

He wasn’t shocked it had got into the press. He knew there would likely be a leak somewhere along the line, but it wasn’t him, and it wasn’t Greg, and he doubted it was the Attorney General either. He read the story, and the lies contained within it and wondered about who the source was.

But it was done now. Every fresh story about Sherlock’s death made him safer, but all the same, it reminded people of what he looked like.

With a sigh, he reached for another newspaper. _Prime Minister’s secret Saudi arms deal. Exclusive report by Oliver Cale._

He tightened his grip on the paper, skimming over the rest of the report before lowering it onto his lap.

And then he waited. It took four hours. And then Anthea told him he needed to go to his Whitehall office because a member of the Prime Minister’s staff needed to see him. It wasn’t even a high-ranking member of staff. Just an errand boy, with a note to say Mycroft’s diplomatic credentials were being stripped from him until they could ascertain the source of the leak.

And Mycroft almost laughed, because the source of the leak was obvious and lived in 10 Downing Street and was a vindictive man who cut off his nose to spite his face.

Not only that, he’d gone to Mycroft’s own choice reporter. Oliver Cale, the man who received the Government’s top secret memos just months ago because Mycroft had told the Prime Minister he was a journalist who could be trusted.

And in some ways, it was a relief not to be able to access the diplomatic reports. He went to his computer and found that yes, his credentials had been pulled. Oh, he was more than capable of getting hold of the reports. But he didn’t force the issue.

With a weight off his mind, he sat at home and began to construct a plan for clearing Sherlock’s name. He studied the legal processes he would have to go through, and how they could build a case to convince the Attorney General.

He invited Greg round for dinner, and he served up lamb shanks cooked in red wine and rosemary and garlic.

“I’ve been doing some research about clearing Sherlock’s name,” Mycroft explained as he poured their wine. “I wasn’t as clear on the law as I thought I was, but I am now. The verdict at the inquest into Sherlock’s death was suicide, the verdict at Moriarty’s was unlawful killing. Because there was no court case, we need to show Moriarty’s death was not unlawful killing but was, in fact, suicide.”

There was a long pause before Greg finally looked up from his food. “Was it?” he asked.

Mycroft narrowed his eyes. “I believe so. Don’t you?”

Greg hesitated. “Yeah, I do. About 99 per cent of the time, I believe Moriarty killed himself. I don't think Sherlock shot him. But I don’t know why. I don’t understand why it happened the way it happened. If Moriarty killed himself, then why did Sherlock? What the hell was he trying to achieve?”

“I don’t… I don’t know.”

Greg winced. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to sound cruel.”

“You don’t. I know what you’re saying. The fact is, you and I both know Sherlock didn’t make up the crimes. What happened on the rooftop that day is largely irrelevant. We just need to prove Sherlock was who he said he was. That Moriarty was a criminal.”

“And that Sherlock was a great man.”

“Was he?” Mycroft asked.

“Yeah, he was. You know I’m with you on this, yeah?”

“I know.”

“Mycroft? Everything okay?”

Mycroft reached across the table and briefly squeezed Greg’s forearm. “You should eat that before it goes cold,” he said softly. “And don’t eat too much. There’s apple crumble for dessert.”

“You’re not talking to me.”

“I am.”

Greg shook his head. “No. Mycroft. You’re not. It’s fine, if you can’t or you don’t want to. But don’t ignore the question. If you’re not okay, you can tell me that and then I know I need to give you space, or put a comedy on, or run you a bath. But don’t push me away. It doesn’t work when you do that.”

Mycroft sighed. “Then no. No, I’m not okay. But it isn’t rational either. I’m… tired, Greg. I’ve lost sight of where I’m needed and what I should be focusing on. The Prime Minister pulled my access, and I don’t even care, I-”

“He did what?”

“He leaked a story to the press and has made it look as though I did it. Mostly to get back at me for voicing an opinion he didn’t like. It’s fine, just a petty one-sided feud. Nothing I’ve not dealt with before.”

“What did you do?”

“I criticised his stance on Saudi Arabia. I was right, Greg. I was perfectly in my rights to say what I said, any other diplomat should have said the same. Perhaps I wasn’t overly tactful, but I shouldn’t have to be.”

“Can I tell you what I think?” Greg asked.

“You may.”

“I think… you’re not enjoying your work. You get up in the morning, and you deal with far too much, and there’s too much going on in your brain. You don’t switch off. You go to bed at 1am, don’t even sleep then, and then you wonder why you’re so tired. You need to take some time out.”

Mycroft blinked at him. “I can’t. I mean, I could. I know I could, but there’s… I’m needed.”

“You need to take a break too, love.”

Mycroft rubbed his forehead, considering. “You’re right to say I’m trying to do too much. My mind is… cluttered.”

“Yeah. I can see that.”

“Do you know what I do on a daily basis?”

Greg laughed. “No, I have no idea.”

“I get in the car, and I read the newspapers. I check for national security leaks. I check for Government leaks. I highlight stories which need to be followed up, and Anthea passes those among my staff. I get to the office and I check… we have a computer programme called Watchtower, it essentially tells me if there are any problems anywhere in the country.”

“What? Everything?”

“Every school, hospital, prison, council… everywhere.”

“And you can see everything?”

“Yes. I used to only see when there were orange alerts, but I had it reconfigured so I could see everything.”

“Why?”

Mycroft paused. “I don’t know,” he said truthfully.

“Sounds a bit… much to me.”

“It is.”

“Then what do you do?” Greg asked. “After you see the alerts?”

“Anthea brings me tea. And she goes over my meetings for the day and gives me the files I need to read in advance. Then I read the latest updates from MI5, MI6 and GCHQ. Where needed, I share my thoughts and expertise and delegate tasks around my office. I deal with the country’s biggest immediate threats as they come up and as and when I’m required. Then I read another programme which breaks down everything happening in the world. Where there have been military strikes, or assassinations, or terrorists captured or tortured. I read the discussions British diplomats are having abroad. I consult on Government legislation, where I’m asked to do so. I clean up other people’s messes.” He swallowed and shook his head. “And then the day ends and I haven’t achieved a damn thing.”

He dropped his head down, pressing the heals of his hands against his tired eyes. Greg took hold of his hand, giving it a quick squeeze, but not pulling it away from his face. Greg kept hold of his hand, while Mycroft considered the work he had to do, the work with no conclusions, no satisfaction, no results.

“I’m afraid I no longer see the bigger picture,” Mycroft finally admitted. “I used to. I used to work outside of everything, just watching, but now I’m doing so much and working on the smallest of projects that now… Now I only see specifics. I have the mental capability of doing everything. But I don’t have a magic watch to give me the time to do it all.”

“Mycroft, even if you did, you’d break eventually. You’re wearing yourself out, trying to do all that lot.”

Mycroft lowered his hands, still holding onto Greg’s fingers. “When you and I were separated, I threw myself into my work. It was all I had.”

“But that’s not the case anymore. And even if it was? You still can’t do everything.”

Mycroft sighed and looked down at their plates. “Our dinner’s getting cold.”

Greg laughed and stood up, walking around the table so he could kiss the top of Mycroft’s head. “I’ll heat these back up in the microwave. Then we’ll eat these. Then we’re going to sit down and work out how to make you feel better.”

“I accept that.” He watched as Greg carried the plates to the microwave. He smiled to himself, looking at him in a loose-fitting t-shirt and jeans. And he’d never been so grateful to have him. “I love you," he added, managing a smile. 

Greg grinned. “Love you,” he replied. “Even if you are the daftest sod I know.”

Mycroft rolled his eyes and leaned on the table. “I could always just… only do security work.”

“Really?”

“Mmm. Not permanently. But the Prime Minister will realise he needs me eventually, but until then I could just… do what I’m good at.”

Greg carried over Mycroft’s reheated plate. “Sounds a good idea. Sounds like you’re putting two fingers up to that Prime Minister idiot as well.”

Mycroft looked up at him with a smile. “That was polite of you.”

Greg laughed. “Alright. Two fingers up at that smarmy, arrogant tosser.”

“He really is terrible, Greg.” He took a calming breath and began to tuck into his food. “Thank you.”

“I didn’t do anything.”

“You did. You know you did.”

Greg smiled and kissed Mycroft’s head. “It’s what I’m here for.”

* * *

On the Monday, Mycroft laid out his plans for Anthea. The Couer de Lion Offices would be security-based. It would strip away all of the Government dealings. It would protect national security. Because that was what mattered. It was a change of pace. And something he could focus on without feeling like he was fighting a losing battle every day.

“We’re going back to the beginning,” Anthea said.

Mycroft nodded. “Yes. This is what I set this up to do. And we need to go back to that.”

“I think it’s a good idea.”

Mycroft smiled. “Good.”

“Are you okay?”

Mycroft looked up at her. “Yes,” he said with a smile, realising it was actually true. “Yes, I’m fine.”


	64. Serenity

**September 2012.**   
**Location: MI5 Headquarters, Thames House, Millbank, London.**

It was with Mycroft’s redefined role that he found himself more regularly assisting in the day-to-day running of the security services. He had once again positioned himself as the man to call in an hour of need. And if anything, his staff were relieved to be returning back to their own roots. 

He sat in a small office adjoining Nadia Swift’s, a desk fan whirring away while he studied the intelligence briefings on his laptop. He rolled his shoulders, fidgeting as he tried to get comfortable in the unfamiliar chair. 

Deciding to give his eyes a rest, he wandered out of the room, empty mug in hand. Madhubala Selling was sat on the floor of Nadia’s office, two laptops set up. Mycroft paused by the door, frowning down at him. “I can only assume your desk at the office is not big enough for you,” Mycroft remarked.

Mads smiled a bit sheepishly. “I ran out of room on the desk Nadia gave me too.”

Mycroft took a seat on Nadia’s settee, scrutinising Mads’ screens. “We don’t have a lot to go on. Only the informant from the terrorist cell. As far as I can tell, there could be an attack hours from now, or perhaps months from now.”

Mads pointed to one of the laptops. “I’m going through the metadata now. But it’s slow work.”

Mycroft leaned forward so he could read the numbers on Mads’ screen. The metadata itself did not appear to tell any particular stories at first glance. It was simply a phone number, a location, a date and time, the length of the call and to what other phone the call was made. But upon closer inspection, the rows of numbers could tell any number of tales. 

From there, it was possible to create a picture of someone’s life. Who their friends, family and co-workers were. If they made a series of late-night calls to someone who was not their spouse. If they made calls to suspected terrorists. 

And slowly but surely, Mads was creating his own charts - almost like a family tree - to show the chains and potential broken links in a plot with no discernible end-date. 

All they knew was that the terrorists were working on something, somewhere. MI5 had a fair idea of who they were, thanks to the informant. But now was a matter of collating the evidence and having them arrested before the plot became anything substantial. 

Mycroft lingered for a few minutes, watching Mads as he sprawled out along the floor, typing at some unfathomable speed. Eventually he smiled to himself and left him to it. He made himself a cup of coffee and settled into the main office. The concentration from everyone around him took him back to his first days in MI5, of that shared energy, the teamwork. Yet there was always that wonderful space, the freedom to try something new, even as they worked towards a joint goal. 

But there was not much he could do in the intelligence-gathering stage. He had read all he could read, and for now he had to sit back and wait until he was needed. 

Over the next few days, a picture built. There was a terrorist attack imminent in a matter of days, somewhere in London. 

Police raided five addresses, and came away empty handed from each. Frustrated, and needing time away from the constant stream of information, Mycroft accepted an invitation for dinner with Greg and Sally Donovan and Sam Brockhurst. MI5 had coped without his assistance in recent years. It could do so again unless the situation became more urgent. 

He went straight from Thames House and let himself into Greg’s flat. Sally was already there, sat on one of the settees beside Sam. Mycroft look a moment to settle his unease and then shook their hands, doing his best not to appear too intimidating, for Greg’s sake if nothing else. 

He followed Greg into the kitchen and poured himself some wine.

“You alright?” Greg asked.

“I may have to leave early, we have a possible situation in Pakistan.” 

Greg turned his head towards him and Mycroft leaned forward, capturing his lips in a brief kiss. Greg smiled at him and bent down to take the lasagne out of the oven. “That’s alright. Got time for some food first though?”

“Yes, of course.”

Greg looked round at him, pulling the oven gloves off. “What happened?” he asked.

Mycroft hesitated, momentarily surprised by Greg’s intuition that murmurings of Pakistan was merely a cover. He whispered against his ear. “There are rumours of a terrorist strike in London tomorrow evening,”

Greg hissed through his teeth.“Jesus. Look, if you need to go…”

“No. I’m working it out as we speak. But it’s far easier to think clearly when I’m relaxed.”

Greg kissed his cheek. “If you need to leave at any point, just go. They know how it is with work and stuff.”

“Thank you.” Mycroft collected the plates and helped Greg dish up their dinners before carrying through their guests’ plates. Mycroft and Greg took a seat on the settee opposite, sinking into the worn cushions. 

“I’ve been doing some art by day,” Sam explained as he ate his meal.

Mycroft flicked his eyes up to him. “Art?” 

“Yeah,” Sam said. “Well, I used to do a lot of portraits when I was at uni. But I sort of stopped when I joined the Yard. Found a bit more free time on my hands and I was painting mine and Sally’s flat. And then one thing led to another and I was painting a mural.”

“I couldn’t believe it,” Sally said. “I got home at about 10pm, thinking all I wanted was a nice soak in the bath. And I got in, and there was a whole underwater mural along the whole wall with sharks and fish and all sorts.”

Sally passed her phone to Greg to look at the offending mural. It was surprising tasteful, much more so than Mycroft had envisaged. He had expected something similar to a children’s bedroom. 

“And you paint portraits?” Mycroft asked.

“If you scroll along the pictures, you’ll see the one he did of my nephew,” Sally said. “And then there’s some commissions after that.”

Mycroft began to scroll through the images, bringing up pictures of young children clearly struggling to sit still, impatience and laughter reflected in their eyes. There was a picture of Sally, mock-exasperation on her face, as though she had sat for far too many of those portraits in recent weeks. 

“They’re very well done,” Mycroft said. “The eyes are full of expression. You’re very talented. Are portraits all you do?”

“No, I do some more surrealist stuff too.” Sam passed his own phone over. “I’ve not sold any of it, it’s just eating dust at the moment until I set up my website to display it all.” 

Mycroft looked over Greg’s shoulder to the painting in question. Greg zoomed in on sections of the image, where chess pieces were depicted as celebrities and police and the royal family. Sam seemed to have a knack of capturing the essence of those he painted. Each policeman, drawn as pawns, was unique with their own expression, even when there were something tired about their eyes and posture. 

“This is extraordinary,” Mycroft murmured. “How much do you charge?”

“Charge?” Sam asked. “For a portrait? Few thousand.”

Greg let out a low whistle. “Bloody hell. No wonder you left the Yard.”

“How large is this piece?” Mycroft asked.

Sam held his arms out. “This wide?”

“Is that particular piece for sale?”

Sam stared at him. “You want to buy that?”

“If you can bear to be parted with it. I think it would make a magnificent addition above my fireplace. Greg, what do you think?”

Greg turned to look at him, eyebrows raised. “Yeah. Well, yeah, definitely.”

Mycroft gave Sam back his phone. “If you could name your price, Sam, I would be grateful.”

“I’ll er… yeah.” Sam grinned. “Cheers.”

Mycroft reached into his pocket and took out a business card. “If you could email me the details, then I will have a driver come to pick it up at a convenient time.”

Sam smiled. “Wow. Cheers, mate, that’s brilliant.” He took his wallet off the table, and slipped the card inside it. Mycroft caught the flash of blue from his Oyster card, and stopped still. Oyster cards, used by London residents and tourists alike, were used to travel on the tube and the London Overground. And it recorded journeys taken, times, dates… 

Mycroft turned to Greg. “Greg, will you excuse me for a moment, I think I have just come up with a solution to my work problem.”

Greg grinned at him. “Go for it.”

Mycroft smiled apologetically to Sam and Sally as he wandered into Greg’s bedroom. He sat on the edge of the bed and waited for Nadia Swift to pick up the phone. 

“Tell me you’ve sorted this,” she answered. 

“Oyster cards,” Mycroft told her. “If they live in London, the chances are they will have Oyster cards. Check their bank statements, it should say whether they’ve paid into the Oyster system. Transport For London can tell you where they’ve travelled. Mads can map their movements.”  
“It’s an idea. We’d need a warrant.”

“Don’t worry about that. Bank accounts first, Nadia. Let me deal with the rest.” He hung up and called Ruth Barker at GCHQ. 

“I’m at a very fancy dinner party for the Prime Minister this evening,” she told him. “I notice you’re not invited.”

“We’ve had a disagreement,” Mycroft told her. “Can you do me a favour?”

“Perhaps.”

“Oyster cards.”

“You want someone’s travel information? The police can ask Transport For London for that.”

“It’ll take too long. I want GCHQ to do it.”

There was a long pause before Ruth spoke again. “You assume I can.”

“Can’t you?”

She laughed. “Of course I can. I legally shouldn't, but I can. Can you send me the details?”

“Nadia Swift at MI5 will. I’m grateful.” He sent an email to Nadia and then set up a video call with Mads. It only took 20 minutes for Ruth Barker to have someone send over the relevant information. 

It took less time than that for the police to be contacted, and for them to launch a raid of the houses in question. Mycroft waited on the line, taking off his jacket and tie as he paced Greg’s bedroom, listening as Mads talked him through his mental processes on how he found the correct addresses. 

“Arrests made,” Nadia announced. “We’ll need to confirm everything. But I think we’ve made a breakthrough.”

“And I can continue with my evening. Thank you, Nadia. Mads.” Mycroft hung up and let out a long, slow breath. He walked back out of the bedroom, smiling easily as he walked past Greg and their guests and collected a bottle of wine from the kitchen. “A celebration,” he said. “I have had a very good evening.”

Greg smiled up at him. “All sorted?”

Mycroft sat down beside him, topping up their glasses and resting an arm on the back of the settee. “Better than I could ever have hoped.” He rested his ankle over the opposite knee, feeling the tension drift from his shoulders. 

“So, what exactly do you do, Mycroft?” Sally asked.

“A small role in the Department of Transport.”

“Bullshit,” Sam said. “You work for MI5. Or MI6.”

“Both, actually,” Mycroft replied. “Purely in an administrative role.”

Sam flashed him a knowing smile. “Uh huh.”

Mycroft simply waved his hand and sipped his wine. “Did you get any formal training in art?” he asked.

“Only in school. And I’ve done some night classes over the years, but not many.”

“I like art.” He wrinkled his nose. “Some art. But I don’t want to have to spend hours thinking about it. I want something I can enjoy for its visual attributes.”

Sam laughed. “All art is about being visually good though.”

“Is it?” Mycroft smiled. “I think some art tries to cause offence on purpose. Ghastly choices of colour, or simply not serving any purpose at all. I’m afraid a formaldehyde shark does very little for me.” 

“But some of Hirst’s paintings are beautiful. Full of colour.”

“Too much colour.”

Sam laughed. 

“Mycroft likes the gothic horror stuff,” Greg said. “He has this picture on the TV. It’s quite… I dunno. Dark.”

“It’s gloomy, I admit,” Mycroft agreed. “It’s an Ernst Ferdinand Oehme piece, and I accept that it’s not to everyone’s taste. But I like how it feels… endless. That there’s a world beyond the picture.”

“Landscapes and I do not go well together,” Sam said. “I’ve tried, but I like people more.”

“And I prefer landscapes, I suppose. Turner. Some of his work can only be considered a mess, but other pieces…”

“They come alive, don’t they? I love what he does with light.” 

“I like when he depicts the stormy seas. It’s very restless. Are you a fan of any particular art, Sally?”

She laughed. “Only what Sam puts in front of me. I don’t have time to go to galleries.”

“Nor do I,” Mycroft replied with a soft smile. “It has been a long time. It must have been before I knew Greg.”

He felt Greg settle in closer to his side, and Mycroft brought his arm around his shoulders. 

“Look at you two,” Sam said with a grin, topping up their wine glasses. “You must be moving in together soon, right?”

“We haven’t discussed it,” Mycroft admitted. 

“It’s good as it is at the moment, to be honest,” Greg said. “We see each other about three or four times a week. But it’s a bit difficult when I’m on lates.”

“I don’t miss the late shift,” Sam said. 

“You don’t miss any of it,” Sally said as she rolled her eyes. “Greg, tell me you’re going to apply of the Detective Chief Inspector job.”

Greg glanced at Mycroft. “We’ve discussed it,” he said. “I dunno. I think I want to.” He grinned at her. “Are you really that keen to get rid of me?”

Sally laughed. “No, I just want your job.”

Greg chuckled. “Thing is, the higher up you get, the more paperwork you do.” He shrugged. “I don’t know. I do want it. I think I want it.”

“How many days until you have to apply?”

“Two more days.” 

“You might as well apply, mate,” Sam said. “Can’t hurt, right?”

“I suppose not.” 

“Anyway, we should go,” Sally said. “Make sure we don’t miss the last tube.” She stood up and collected her coat. Mycroft and Greg rose to their feet. 

“We’ll do this again,” Mycroft said. “Perhaps go out for dinner.”

Sally smiled at him and squeezed his bicep. “Sounds lovely,” she said. She nudged Sam with her foot. “C’mon, you.”

Sam groaned and downed the rest of his wine. “Alright, alright, I’m up.” He shook Mycroft’s hand and then Greg’s. “I’ll contact you about that painting,” he said, grinning. “See you later.” He took Sally’s hand and led her out. 

Mycroft waited for the door to close before he tugged Greg close, kissing his jaw.

“Was that alright?” Greg asked.

“I enjoyed it,” Mycroft said.

“I thought… y’know. Maybe you’d find it dull.”

“Sam is a breath of fresh air.”

Greg kissed him. “Tired now though?”

“Yes, that was enough social interaction for the rest of the week,” Mycroft said.

Greg laughed and took his hand. “Come to bed.”

Mycroft smiled and kissed him gently. “With pleasure.” He allowed himself to be led there, and slipped under the covers while Greg went back to the living room to have a cigarette out of the window. He brushed his teeth before he joined Mycroft there. 

They lay in the dark, Mycroft’s head on Greg’s chest. “You should apply for the job if you think you want it,” Mycroft said. “Admittedly it will be more paperwork, but it’ll also be more money and more responsibility and yet more regular hours.”

“Thing is, the stuff with Sherlock means my name isn’t exactly clean.”

“It wasn’t really dragged through the press either,” Mycroft pointed out. “It was a hearing held in private.”

“Yeah, I know.” Greg stroked his fingers through Mycroft’s hair. “So, what happened tonight? Anything you can share?”

“We caught four suspected terrorists in the middle of building a bomb.”

Greg laughed against his head. “Same old, same old then, yeah?”

“Quite.” Mycroft lifted his head so he could kiss Greg’s lips. “Goodnight.”

“Night, love.”

* * *

**October 2012.**

Mycroft took peace in his new routines. He took Mads further under his wing, introducing him to some of the movers and shakers in the security services. Mads had a remarkable brain, one which worked in very different ways to Mycroft’s. They spent many an hour in the early evenings discussing the merits of their different data collection tools and how analysts worked. 

Mads admitted his desire to eventually go into the field, and Mycroft promised to provide him with the appropriate training. On one afternoon, he took him to meet Sylvia Ross.

At the end of their tea, Mads went out to the car while Sylvia took Mycroft aside. She took hold of his hands. 

“You lost your way, but you’re back on track,” she said. “Tell me what I can do to help when you need it, won’t you?”

“Yes, Mrs Ross.”

She smiled at him. “I remember when I first met you. Look at the man you’ve become.”

Mycroft ducked his head. “I hardly think-”

“-Nonsense. I’m proud of you, Mycroft. You and Anthea both, and what you’ve built together. I’ll find the funding you need to put Mads through a proper training programme, the sort you had and they just don’t provide these days. He’ll get everything he needs.”

“You are a wonder,” Mycroft said, kissing her hand. 

She beamed at him. “Just keep this country safe. It’s all I ever wanted.” 

“You and I both,” he replied. 

He found joy in his work. A certain amount of pride. For the first time in a long time, he felt confident and in control. He gave Anthea more responsibilities. He provided Jim Braum with additional management training so he could look after a team of security experts for himself. He watched Mads grow with confidence, took tea with Hugh Seagroves and strengthened his position an intermediary between all of the security services. 

Sherlock had taken himself to the Czech Republic and was lying low. He was out of the firing line while he re-evaluated his plans. It was a weight off Mycroft’s mind. 

It gave him time to focus on Greg and their relationship. He had a feeling he had neglected it somewhat, losing himself in his mind and forgetting that they needed to continue to build solid foundations for their future together. 

And while he found an inner contentment, Greg too seemed to be escaping his own ghosts. He finally allowed Mycroft to talk to him about the truth of his birth mother, and they worked through his family history together. 

On a crisp-cold morning, they visited her new headstone, walking hand in hand through the cemetery. He gave Greg’s hand a squeeze as they stopped in front of Connie Knight’s new grave, her name beautifully carved into the marble.

“It’s better,” Greg murmured, brushing a leaf off the top. “More fitting.”

“It’s perfect, Greg,” Mycroft said.

“I should say something.”

“You don’t have to.”

“That’s what people do. They say something. But I don’t know what.”

Mycroft joined him in silence for a few minutes. He knew as well as Greg did that the dead didn’t hear their words, yet it meant something to say them aloud. It brought comfort to speak the sentimental truths, those things they may never have had the chance to say.

“Would you allow me?” Mycroft finally asked.

“Sure.”

Mycroft pressed his lips together, imagining Connie, what he would say to hear if he was given the chance. “You did a wonderful job protecting your son,” he said softly. “And I promise to do the same. Whatever it takes.”

Greg met his eyes, lit up with a gentle smile. He nudged Mycroft’s side. “Yeah, and I’ll look after you too.” They shared a soft kiss. “Whatever it takes.” 

Mycroft gave his hand another squeeze. “Do you need more time?” he asked.

“No. No, I’m good, thanks.”

“A late lunch then?”

They began to walk back to the car together, and Kamik drove them to a small country pub where they sat by the fire and drank and shared a Camembert with bread, then fish and chips. 

“How are you feeling?” Mycroft asked as Greg brought over another set of drinks.

Greg stretched his feet out in front of him, pint balanced in his hand. “Yeah, okay. Better. A bit of a weight’s been lifted.”

“I understand.”

“I never had the chance to say goodbye to her. And now I have.”

Mycroft nodded. “It’s surprising how visiting a grave can provide some comfort.”

“Yeah. Did you… have you visited Sherlock?”

“No,” Mycroft murmured, frowning into his glass. He supposed had Sherlock really been dead, he may have done. But there was no need in visiting the grave of a living man. 

“Oh right. Just thought maybe that’s how you… I dunno. Knew what to say.”

“There are no right and wrong things to say. I was thinking about Jimmy Dine, actually. I visited his grave. I spoke about you.”

Greg looked up at him. “About me?”

“You would have liked one another, in an alternative reality.” Mycroft finished his whiskey and sat back in his chair, watching the flames for a few moments. “I suppose really we should be talking about our next steps for Sherlock.”

“Right, yeah. Well, I’ve tracked down two of the jurors from the Moriarty trial.”

“Only two?”

“The others have all moved or gone into hiding, it looks like. I don’t blame them. One of them is really reluctant to chat, but the other seems to be relieved to finally get it off their shoulders.”

“We could use a few more,” Mycroft told him. “Perhaps another two will add enough authority to their story.”

Greg nodded and plucked his phone out of his pocket, typing out a few notes. “We haven’t touched on the physical evidence yet. That’s the one thing I wasn’t really able to do much on before. I couldn’t just go and fiddle around in the evidence box, not after my links to the case.”

“We don’t want to overplay our hand anyway. The Attorney General needs evidence to prove the original inquest was wrong, but I don’t want to tell him everything at once.”

“Any idea why he turned down the appeal this time?” 

“Political reasons, I suspect,” Mycroft said. “I’m still untangling his relationships, but my current exile from politics is making that tricker than usual.”

“So, we’ve got the original trial, evidence. Anything on Moriarty’s background?”

“They won’t take that into account. We’re trying to prove his death was suicide, and not unlawful killing. They won’t take into account his life history.”

“Can’t you find it out though?” Greg asked. “His life history? I mean, no offence, love. But I can’t honestly believe you sat there and let this happen. You must have been watching Sherlock, you must have known more about Moriarty than you’re letting on.”

“I.” He sighed. “Yes. I know more than I’m letting on. I know he killed Carl Powers. I know how he learned about Sherlock, and about me. I know a fair amount about how he worked, how he built his network. Unfortunately he was… very often a few steps ahead of me. But he’s dead now and the least we can do is this work for Sherlock. I am sorry. For how all of this turned out. It didn’t go the way I had planned or hoped. But people are unpredictable. And an unpredictable and unhinged man like Moriarty is hard to outmanoeuvre.” 

“I don’t blame you. You shouldn’t blame yourself.”

Mycroft met his eyes. “The thing is, that I don’t entirely. Not anymore.” He reached out and squeezed Greg’s fingers. “Anyway. We can only keep moving forward.”

They stayed for another drink before Max drove them back to Crusader House, the dividing wall in the car raised so they could kiss on the backseat. Greg was letting out soft, needy breaths against his lips, his hand gradually edging higher and higher up Mycroft’s thigh. 

“Slow down,” Mycroft muttered. “We’ve got to actually make it indoors.”

Greg laughed and kissed Mycroft’s neck in a way he had clearly learned drove him to distraction. Mycroft’s eyes fell closed and he gripped Greg’s hand as it threatened to reach his crotch.

“Dammit, Holmes,” Greg laughed, kissing breathlessly behind his ear. 

“You need to be restrained,” Mycroft murmured, meeting his mouth in another kiss. “You’ve got no sense of… patience. You’ve got no patience.”

“Mmm. Nope. None at all.” They kissed again, this time Greg brushing the tip of his thumb against Mycroft’s cock. Mycroft shuddered, breaking the kiss to check his pocketwatch. “God. How long now?”

“Another 15 minutes. If you think you can actually wait that long.”

Greg laughed, gave Mycroft another kiss then thankfully, or perhaps not-so-thankfully, moved his hand to his knee instead. Greg jiggled his leg, licking his lips as he studied Mycroft’s face. “Christ, it’s so hard to keep my hands of you,” he murmured.

“Well, you just have to. Or I’ll… handcuff you to the bed when we get there.”

A slow grin spread over Greg’s face. “Yeah, you could do that. I’d like that.”

“You would?”

Greg kissed his neck. “Mmm hmm. I like it when you’re all… in control.”

Mycroft tilted his head to grant him more access. “I don’t think I have patience for that this evening.”

“No?” 

Mycroft smiled and squeezed his knee. “I want you as much as you appear to want me.” Their lips met in another kiss, softer than before, slowing everything down. 

But still, it was a relief when the car finally came to a standstill, and they held one another’s hand as they made their way up to Mycroft’s flat. As they made their way through the front door and pushed it closed, their earlier passions resumed, with Mycroft finding himself pressed up against the wall, Greg hastily unfastening his tie and his shirt. 

He tipped his head back as Greg trailed kisses down his chest and his stomach, palming his cock through his trousers. Mycroft gripped his hair, letting his mouth fall open as he stared down at his lover through half-lidded eyes. 

Greg met his eyes, a grin on his face as he unfastened Mycroft’s trousers and pulled them down along with his underwear. He took Mycroft’s cock in his mouth in one quick motion, wrapping his hand around the base. Mycroft shuddered, resting his hand loosely on the back of Greg’s head. 

He stared down to where his partner’s lips were spread around his cock, groaning wantonly as he moved his head, flicking his tongue against him. 

“Bedroom,” Mycroft managed. 

Greg lifted his head and let Mycroft help him to his feet. They made quick work of undressing themselves as they headed for the bedroom, their bodies connecting as they sat together on the bed, hands seeking skin, searching, feeling everywhere. They tumbled down against the mattress together, laughing, sharing breathy kisses. 

There wasn’t a desire to wait and fumble with lubricant. Instead they re-arranged themselves until they lay head-to-toe, Mycroft on top as he took Greg’s cock into his mouth. He trembled as Greg did the same to him, and he had to force himself to focus on Greg’s length against his tongue. 

He worked his mouth and hand in time, his technique stuttering as Greg flicked his tongue against him and stroked his index finger against his hole in silent promise. Greg displayed his pleasure with groans around Mycroft’s cock, and Mycroft sucked harder around him in return. 

He was blissed out, rapidly moving his hand so as to give Greg the same satisfaction. His arms shook from where he held himself up, but he kept moving his head, kept delighting in the intimacy of it, the build up, unashamed and hedonistic. 

He felt Greg’s balls draw up, watched his toes curl into the covers. Mycroft swallowed all he gave, slackening his lips as he stroked him through his orgasm. He lifted his head and Greg tackled him down onto his back, moving between his thighs to take him back into his mouth. 

Mycroft curled his fingers in his hair and around the headboard. He arched up despite himself, swept up in ecstasy. It was only moments later when he came, his eyes fixed on Greg’s face. 

They lay together for a while, Greg’s head on Mycroft’s thighs, Mycroft’s fingers brushing through his hair. 

And then hazy and feeling utterly self-indulgent, they shared a cigarette while wrapped up naked in a blanket on the settee listening to Mycroft’s favourite music.

* * *

Greg took Mycroft to Cambridge for his birthday, treating him to dinosaurs at the Sedgwick Museum Of Earth Sciences. Mycroft had never known what it was like to be so understood. He welcomed it. 

The weekend flew by, the nights fulled with pleasure and a serenity Mycroft had only ever dreamt of.

* * *

**November 2012.**   
**Location: Crusader House, Pall Mall, London.**

He couldn’t imagine things could get any better, and then Greg got the Detective Chief Inspector job. They drank a glass of champagne at Crusader House, then went for steaks at Foxlow Clerkenwell. It was deliberately modern enough that Greg did not feel out of place without a tie, but the food more than met Mycroft’s approval. 

He couldn’t disguise his pride as they ordered champagne and a bottle of red wine, Mycroft taking hold of Greg’s hand above the table. 

“Well then,” Mycroft started as he squeezed Greg’s fingers. “You’ve explained your feelings, but you haven’t told me what the Commander said to you.”

Greg grinned. “That she wanted to give one of the outside candidates the job. But then Carter spoke to her and… well, I guess he recommended me and she liked what he said. So, she started speaking to more people who work with me and they said nice things.” He pulled a piece of paper out of his pocket and handed it over. "Here. She gave me this. Apparently people said this about me."

Mycroft skim-read the words, all encapsulating Greg’s greatest qualities, his loyalty, friendliness, generosity, trustworthiness. He passed the paper back over. “It reads like a list of things I’ve been telling you for the past seven years.”

Greg laughed and thanked the waitress as she brought over their champagne. “Yeah, does a bit. Maybe Anthea needs to do a whip-round and get your staff to do the same for you.”

“Dictatorial, posh, moody, perhaps an evil genius,” Mycroft mused. 

Greg snorted. “Shut up. That isn’t true, and you know it’s not. If they thought that, they wouldn’t work for you.”

“Well, actually, I think they would. Because I offer them a very good salary. Better than they could get for… box.”

Greg frowned. “For what?”

“Slang for the security services.”

“Okay, so they get a bit more money. But people don’t stick with jobs they hate just because of that.”

“They don’t hate the job.”

“They don’t hate you either.”

Mycroft paused and sipped his champagne. “No, I suppose you’re right. That doesn’t mean they don’t think I’m an evil genius.”

Greg grinned at him. “Oh, I think you’re an evil genius sometimes too, but that’s okay. It’s when you get a white cat that we start to worry.”

“Oh no. It would get white fur all over my suits. It would need to be a cat which didn’t moult too much.”

“Noted. No moulting cats to be your evil sidekick.”

Mycroft rolled his eyes. “You are in a good mood.”

Greg beamed at him. “I’m in a really good mood. I got the job. I’ve got the chance to officially open the Sherlock case, on my own terms, without anyone having to sign it off. And I’m eating dinner with you. I don’t think tonight can get any better.”

“I got you a gift.”

“I stand corrected.”

Mycroft smiled and reached into his coat pocket. “Don’t get too excited. I didn’t have much time to go out and buy it.” He passed the box over. 

Greg grinned at him and opened it. “A pen. You were right about not getting excited.”

Mycroft playfully swatted his arm. “It’s a Parker pen. I think you’ll find it’s more than just a pen when you use it to sign your name.” He took out a business card and passed it over. “Here, write your signature on that.” 

Mycroft couldn’t hide his pleasure as Greg did as he asked, his eyebrows raised as he realised how the pen flew beautifully over the paper, even with his ugly, stunted signature. “Alright. It’s a good pen.” He smiled and squeezed Mycroft’s hand. “Thank you.”

“Congratulations on the job.” 

“I couldn’t have done it without your proofreading skills.”

“Your writing wasn’t that bad.” Mycroft ordered them both steaks for their main course. 

“Must have been a long time since you applied for a job,” Greg said. 

“Yes, a while. I applied to work in the Civil Service. So I suppose that was the last time. I am effectively my own boss now. In a sense.”

“How did it all even start? You went straight into… the box after uni, right?”

“Yes. I applied for a job in the foreign office, actually. I knew law, I knew a number of languages. It had seemed like a good fit. But I was contacted by the MoD, saying I may be a better fit elsewhere. It took months.” Mycroft finished his champagne and began to pour the red wine. “They question you on everything,” he said. “Your politics, your religion, sexuality, ethics. There are interrogations, written tests… psychological evaluations. Everything you can think of. There’s very little they don’t know.” 

He had almost failed at the first hurdle because of Sherrinford, but they decided it had been so long since Mycroft had last seen him, and he spoke of his brother with such anger, that they agreed to give him a chance. Or rather, Sylvia Ross had seen something in him and taken him under her wing. 

“I had a mentor,” Mycroft continued. “She was tough, but gave me opportunities other people didn’t get. It’s how I ended up in America. She organised it for me. She gives me far too much leeway at times though. I don’t remember the last time I had a psychological evaluation. It must have been years ago. She, or someone else, just signed me off. And then I set up the Coeur de Lion and… suddenly I didn’t need to do that anymore. I am in charge of monitoring myself. I suppose that’s a dangerous thing really.”

“You must have someone checking on you though.”

“Not… not really. Anthea will agree with what I suggest. People rarely disagree with my decisions on those matters.”

Greg narrowed his eyes at him. “You’ve broken the law.”

“Of course.”

Greg huffed a laugh. “Of course,” he repeated, pausing as the waitress brought over their steaks. He waited until she had gone before speaking again. “But you’re following the law when it comes to Sherlock.”

“Yes. Most of the time I follow the correct procedures. Sometimes it’s… impossible. I can’t imagine there is a Government in the world acting to the letter of the law. There can’t be. Not with the wars, the national security ambitions. But most people forgive that, or don’t even consider it, as long as they and their loved ones are safe and can watch reality TV shows and eat takeaway.”

Greg tutted. “Okay, that’s a bit patronising.”

“Realistic, surely? You’ve hardly ever voted in the elections. You don’t really know which party you stand for. You care about your job, the victims and having a roof over your head. But if the Government passes legislation on education, do you honestly take any interest?”

“No, because I don’t have kids.”

“It doesn’t affect you, or immediately affect anyone you know. Therefore you don’t care.”

Greg pulled a face as he began to tuck into his steak. “I care about the NHS. If I thought there would be longer waiting times.”

“It affects you.”

Greg tapped Mycroft’s leg with his shoe. “Alright, smartypants. Name me some other bills.”

“The Energy Act, where people would be given money to make energy efficiency improvements.”

“Yeah. I… er… care about the environment.”

“Do you?”

“Well, on a normal human level, yeah. I don’t want the world to explode.”

Mycroft smiled and leaned back in his seat. “If anyone asked, you would say you cared about the environment. You recycle when you remember. But you don’t actively think about saving water or turning the radiators off, because you can afford to heat your home and you’d rather keep the heating on than sit on the settee under a blanket. There’s nothing wrong with that.”

“You think there is.”

“I don’t. I wish people would care about some issues. I wish they’d open their eyes and see what their Government has the power to do. I think people have a tendency to be self-involved and entitled. But ultimately, all we want is to be warm, safe, fed, watered and loved. And I can’t fault people for that. It’s the same thing I want for myself, and for you.”

“So, you’re also entitled and self-involved.”

“I also protect this country on a daily basis.”

Greg shrugged. “So do I.”

Mycroft smiled at him. “Yes. Yes, you do. What were we disagreeing about again?”

“You breaking the law.”

“Ah. Perhaps I’ll go into more detail on that somewhere less public.”

Greg laughed. “Yeah, good plan. This is great steak by the way.”

“We’ll eat ourselves around the best restaurants in London over the coming years.” Mycroft lifted his glass. “I propose a toast to you, your new job and finding plenty more to celebrate in the future.”

Greg flashed him a pleased grin and tapped their glasses together. “To celebrating in the future.”

* * *

Mycroft planned Greg’s birthday to begin with the two of them in bed. He got up first, and left for work, leaving Greg’s present on his desk at New Scotland Yard. 

He sat down and began his daily reviews of Watchtower and checked his emails when Anthea provided him with a note. “From Sherlock,” she said. 

It contained only two words ‘Still alive’.

Mycroft rolled his eyes. “Where is he?”

“Germany. Hamburg.”

“Well, at least he’s checking in…” Mycroft muttered. He frowned, trying to remember Sherlock’s list of targets. “I suppose he’ll be after Trepoff. Could you see what you can dig up on him for me, please?” 

The day began to progress smoothly, starting with a conversation with Nadia Swift about funding for a MI5 programme. Mycroft promised her he would speak to Sylvia Ross about it. He went for a walk at lunchtime, popping into a sandwich shop to buy himself and Anthea a panini each. 

He was nearing the front of the queue when his phone rang. “Mycroft Holmes,” he answered. There was a long pause as the line crackled. “Hello?”

“The cat always catches the mouse eventually,” came the electronic voice. The phone went dead. Mycroft frowned and heard coughing as someone tried to nudge him towards the counter. 

“Apologies,” he murmured. He stepped out of the queue, shaken, looking around at the faces, as though one of them may have just called him. He walked back outside, stopping on the pavement. He scrolled through his phone to call Anthea, and almost jumped when it rang instead.

“Yes?” he answered.

“Mycroft there’s been an explosion,” she said. “Hamburg.”


	65. Life In Limbo

**November 2012.**  
**Location: The Coeur de Lion Office, Mayfair, London.**

He dialled Sherlock’s number. It rang and rang and rang and then Mycroft reached the robotic tones of his voicemail. He tried again and again, until he reached the office, where Anthea was already stood in the doorway, sympathy reflected in her eyes. “Sir-”

Mycroft dismissed her with a wave of his hand. “-We’ve got no time to think about it,” he cut in, untying his scarf and handing it to her as they walked in step through to the main office. “We just need to handle it. I need information and I need it as fast as the German authorities are getting it.”

“Lucas is already working on it.”

Mycroft stepped into his office and hung his coat up. Fumbling with his phone, he tried calling Sherlock again. Nothing. “Dammit,” he muttered, rubbing a hand over his face. “Anthea. I had a phone call. A withheld number. It was an electronic voice. Computer-generated, anyway.”

“What did it say?”

“A cat and mouse…” He frowned. His mind felt unusually foggy, the words missing. “No, the cat catches the mouse.” He leaned on his desk, frowning down at his laptop. “They know Sherlock is…” He stopped himself. They knew Sherlock was alive. There was no telling if he was now. “He was…” He swallowed. Steadied himself. "Sherlock..."

“Sherlock was in Hamburg for a reason,” Anthea reminded him. “He must have known something was going to happen. He would not have put himself in the middle of it.”

“Wouldn’t he?" Mycroft raised his eyebrows at her. "He would have tried to prevent this, had he known it was going to happen.” Mycroft visited the BBC website, finding the first news reports already underway. “I need to call Greg, will you give me a minute?”

“Of course. I’ll talk to Lucas, try to get a sense of what’s happening in Germany.”

“Thank you.”

He waited for the door to close before calling Greg’s number, wishing he could just tell him everything so he didn’t feel so alone.

“Hi, Greg’s phone,” a woman answered.

Mycroft frowned. “Hello…”

“Hi, yeah, it’s Sally.”

“Oh, of course. Would you tell Greg to call me?”

“I’ll tell him.”

“Thank you.”

“Cheers,” she said, hanging up.

Mycroft sunk down in his chair, closing his eyes. There had been 13 targets on Sherlock’s list.

Owen Sharratt was dead. The assassin on Martha Hudson had been killed by Bill. Manish Rahane was in prison. A blonde woman in Latvia. Baron Maupertuis. Trepoff. Two in Qatar, one of those dead. Three in Russia. Another in Poland. That was 12. And Moran.

Moran.

Sherlock had warned Mycroft that Moran hadn’t made a move on John because he suspected Sherlock was still alive.

Moran was playing the game, cat and mouse, chasing Sherlock while Sherlock chased the rest. Could he build a bomb? Well, he must have learnt. Mycroft hadn’t done enough to track him down. He had tried, somewhat heart-heartedly. He had kept surveillance on John Watson, but that had involved protection, not in finding his hunter.

Foolhardy. A series of mistakes, errors, miscalculations.

He had miscalculated Moran, because he thought he was weak and defenceless without Moriarty. Just a sniper. Only a man with a gun. Perhaps not though. Perhaps there was more to him.

More than just a man with a gun.

He jumped at a knock on the door, and called them to come in. Lucas Pavey carried over what he had so far, indeed very little. Just an estimate of those dead, that Al-Qaeda had openly stated it was not them responsible.

Mycroft’s phone rang. He frowned and picked it up, gesturing for Lucas and Anthea to leave him alone. “Yes?”

“It’s Hugh Seagroves.”

“Hugh.” Mycroft waited for the door to click closed. “High, if this isn’t about Hamburg, I’m afraid-”

“-It’s about Hamburg,” Hugh said. “We were tracking a man. British man. He went missing in Hamburg. But we suspect he was the bomber.”

“What was his name?”

“Anton Frisk.”

Mycroft felt as though the air had been sucked out of him. Not Moran. It didn’t mean there wasn’t a link, the phone call was too coincidental for that. “Frisk,” Mycroft repeated. “I don’t… the name, I don’t know it.”

“I’m surprised you don’t. Do you remember the first aeroplane project with the cadavers?”

“Of course I remember.”

“The first time we did it, we watched that engineer load the bomb on the ‘plane, yes? But we let him go because we didn’t want to alert the terrorists.”

Mycroft swallowed. Bond Air. It all linked to Bond Air, which meant it linked to Moriarty, linked to Moran, linked to Sherlock… “Mmm.”

“He went missing, but we found out who he was easily enough," Hugh continued. "Anton Frisk. He is a British man, from Yorkshire originally. He kept a low-profile for a long time. But we caught up with him eventually.”

“And then lost him?”

“Only in the past 48 hours. In Hamburg. I thought you ought to know.”

“When are you going public with that information?” Mycroft asked.

“We’re not sure yet. We’re consulting with the Germans, of course. It’ll be up to them.”

“Do you need me to…”

“No, not yet. But I will tell you if there is anything you can do.”

Mycroft hung up, names and thoughts swimming through is head at a frenetic pace. “Slow down,” he whispered to himself, touching his forehead. He jumped as his phone rang. He took one long breath before answering. “Greg. This matter in Hamburg. I am so sorry, I have to cancel our reservation, I’m needed here.”

“Hey, hey, it’s alright,” Greg said. “I understand.”

“They suspect it was a British man. We were tracking him and we lost him. And now… he was part of Moriarty’s network.”

“Shit. What did he want in Hamburg?”

“Come to Crusader House after work. I do want to see you, and we will still have the weekend.”

“Of course I will.”

Mycroft closed his eyes. “I need to go.”

“Mycroft. Thank you for the watch. I love it.”

Mycroft swallowed. “You’re welcome. I’m sorry. See you tonight.”

“See you later, love. And it’s alright.”

It didn’t feel alright. Anthea cancelled their dinner reservation. And then, without invitation, took a seat on Mycroft’s settee with her laptop on the cushion in front of her.

Mycroft frowned at her. “What are you doing?” he asked.

“Supporting you.” She shot him a look. “Don’t argue.”

“I need to think.”

“I’ll be quiet.”

Mycroft bit his lip, slumping his shoulders in defeat. “Fine. Any news on Sherlock?”

“No.”

“Have they identified any of the bodies?”

“Not yet. I will make contact with the authorities so we find out names moments after they do.”

Minutes later, Loretta brought them both some teas with a biscuit each. And Mycroft braced himself for the worst news of his life.

* * *

It was just gone 10pm when he finally got home. Sherlock’s name had not been disclosed as being among the 136 dead, and they hadn’t found anyone with other his identities either. But Mycroft couldn’t stand to be in the office any longer.

When he arrived home, he found Greg on the sofa, lounging in his pyjama trousers and a plain white t-shirt. He stretched his arm out over the back of the settee, and Mycroft took hold of his warm hand.

“Thai food is on the way,” Greg said. “Do you want any of this wine?”

Mycroft nodded and let go of his hand. “Please.” Even his touch was unsettling. He felt as though he was suffering from sort of sensory overload, where anything pleasurable, anything comforting, sent his mind into meltdown. He couldn’t crash, not in front of Greg. Because why would he feel so much pain at the deaths of 136 anonymous people he had never met and never known? He would have to explain it all if he were to break down now, to tell Greg about Sherlock, and then to watch Greg walk away, and for everything good he had to slip through his fingers…

And though he knew he needed to calm his panic, and though he was sure Greg was the answer to it all, he wanted more than anything else to think straight. He wandered into the en-suite, quietly closing and locking the door behind him. He splashed water on his face and squeezed his eyes shut. He could feel himself teetering on the edge, entrapped by fear, almost certain the worst was to come.

Even seeing Greg, feeling his warmth, simply knowing he was there, was not enough. And still he had to hide it all from him, couldn’t explain his feelings of utter devastation because there was a game he simply could not give away.

He took off his tie and unbuttoned the top of his shirt before walking out to the kitchen. Greg was already there, the food laid out.

“You needn’t have waited,” Mycroft said as he took a seat.

“It only got here a couple of minutes ago. It’s not cold.”

Mycroft took a long swig from his wine before beginning to pick at his food. He took small bites, eating more for show than a need to sate his hunger.

“What do you need?” Greg asked after a while, when Mycroft had laid down his cutlery, his food half-finished.

Mycroft rested his chin on his hands. “I don’t know. We didn’t predict this. But with the link to Moriarty, we should have seen it coming.”

“God,” Greg muttered. “I thought we were done with bloody Moriarty.”

“I might have a bath. I need some time.”

Greg smiled at him. “Go for it.”

“This must be the worst birthday imaginable,” Mycroft said, topping his wine glass up before getting up.

“I’m with you,” Greg said. “It’s a good birthday, whatever happens.”

Mycroft bent down to kiss the top of Greg’s head. “I’ll be with you shortly.” He collected an unopened bottle of wine from the side and carried it to the en-suite. He hung his clothes up while he waited for the bath to fill, sipping his wine as he leaned against the wall.

The hot water allowed him to escape his thoughts for a few fleeting seconds. Then it all came back, the prospect of Sherlock lying dead under rubble. That no one would be able to contact his family, because his name and identity was all a lie. That the first Mycroft would hear about it would be from a phone call from Anthea, and he would know, just know, from the hitch in her voice, in the pause before she broke the news... 

He finished half the bottle before the water turned chilly. He dressed in a light, comfortable shirt and soft trousers and socks. The unrestrictive fabric gave him some room to breathe. He joined Greg on the settee, letting him place his feet in Mycroft’s lap.

Mycroft took hold of the television remote, flicking through channels without really acknowledging what was on any of them. He blinked. “I’m rather drunk,” he said, feeling strangely numb and frowning at the images, distant and hard to focus on. “I hardly noticed it was happening and now it’s overwhelming.”

“Easy explanation for that,” Greg said. “You drank lots of those glasses there.”

“Yes. That would explain everything.”

Greg laughed and collected a cigarette packet from the table. Mycroft didn’t protest. He wasn’t one for smoking indoors, but he couldn’t deny the thought of tobacco and rich smoke filling his lungs had its appeal.

He watched out of the corner of his eye as Greg took one deep inhale, and on any other day, Mycroft would have been inclined to kiss his neck, share the cigarette with him, and then seduce him. But he couldn’t even bring himself to consider the prospect of sex. He took the cigarette from him, frowning at the smoke as he held it between his fingers.  
He turned his attention back to the television. He had ended up on the news, filled with images of buildings aflame and ambulances and people crying.

So many times, he had seen the news filled with those images. And so often, he had wondered how much it had been his fault. “What is it all for?” Mycroft asked.

“What’s what for?” Greg asked.

“The destruction and misery. What’s the point?”

“I don’t know,” Greg said, taking the cigarette back from him. “I don’t know if anything is done for any real reason.”

“People,” Mycroft muttered. “They’re so…”

“Stupid?”

Mycroft quirked a small smile. “I was going to suggest unreasonable.”

Greg sighed. “Seems like an understatement in the circumstances.”

“Yes, it does.”

The camera panned through a makeshift hospital where children lay in beds, recovering from their injuries.

“Is that what it’s for?” Greg asked.

Mycroft frowned. “Children?”

“Yeah. About making a better world for kids. Even if their version of a better world doesn’t match up with anyone else’s.”

“Perhaps.”

Greg stumped his cigarette out. He turned to Mycroft. “Do you… do you want kids?” he asked.

Mycroft glanced at him, opening his mouth but not answering immediately. “I never really considered it to be a possibility,” he said. “Living things are genetically programmed to reproduce. The continuation of their DNA and family line is important, though animals don’t recognise their carnal needs are created simply to continue the species. Humans are animals, so I suppose the majority have that need somewhere along the line.”

“Not really an answer,” Greg said.

“I’m working it through in my mind. Usually I would do this in my head, but the alcohol’s making me speak aloud.”

Greg laughed. “Carry on then.”

“Do I want children?” Mycroft repeated, frowning. “I never thought I would meet someone to have one with. Since it appeared to be so unlikely, I erased it as a subject to think about at all. I mean, if you consider it for a moment. Homosexual acts only became legal in the UK a year after you were born, but the age of consent was 21. It was only in 2001 that it was reduced to 16.”

“Hang on, what?” Greg frowned. “The age of consent was 21 until 2001? So when I first had sex with a bloke, it wasn’t legal?”

“Correct.”

“Huh. Wow, I had a lot of illegal sex.”

Mycroft managed a smile. “As did I.”

“So. Kids weren’t on the radar because being gay was still… well, discriminated against?”

“Yes,” Mycroft said. “And now…”

“And now?”

Mycroft shook his head. “The honest answer is I don’t know about children. Financially and practically I suppose I could offer everything one would need, and the relationship I have with you indicates I could perhaps provide the emotional stability and understanding too. But knowing what I know about the world and about people in it, can I ever justify bringing one into the world? I’m not so sure.”

“Are you logic-ing yourself out of it?” Greg asked.

“Wrong choice of words. There is not logic in acting on some of the basic desires of being human. I want to survive, so I must eat. That’s simple. But must I have children? Well, that depends. Ultimately humans want children to continue the species, but on a much smaller scale, it’s to continue the family line. You and I are each the end of our respective lines. I always suspected Sherlock was not one to have children of his own, so I always knew it would fall to me.”

“Not really an answer,” Greg said.

“I know. I don’t have one.”

“Neither do I. I wasn’t fussed. Not with Caroline. And Jane never wanted them, she was happy with Louis.”

“Louis?”

“The dog.”

“Ah.” They both turned to the television as it finally skipped to another news story.

“There’s got to be more to having children than that,” Greg said. “Something more than just a need to carry on a line.”

“Has there?” Mycroft asked, looking at him.

“I think people have kids because they think there’s got to be a point to their lives.”

“Is that why you’re bringing this up? Because your life won’t have a point if you don’t have children?”

“No. I dunno. I never 100 per cent ruled it out, it just wasn’t something I thought about.”

“And now?”

Greg shrugged. “Dion Martin,” he said.

Mycroft frowned. Dion Martin, the teenager who killed his abusive stepfather? “I’m sorry?”

“If Dion Martin didn’t make a good life for himself and have a kid of his own and just spent his life in and out of prison, I think I would have needed kids. To prove I did something good and worthwhile. But I made a difference to him. I guess I needed to remember what it was like to do something right, especially after Sherlock.”

“You have made a difference to many people, not least myself.”

“So, kids?” Greg asked.

Mycroft hesitated, turning back to the news. He imagined it for a second, Greg bouncing a small baby on his knee. And then he imagined the fear he would feel every day, to step out of their home with the unbearable thought of leaving them, the terror that something could happen to them being more than he could bear. “No. I can’t.”

Greg nodded. “Yeah. Yeah, it’s no for me too.”

“Perhaps a cat?”

“Yeah,” Greg said with a smile. “Maybe a cat.” He swung his legs around and shuffled closer to Mycroft. “Turn the telly off. You don’t need to watch anymore of this, it’s not helping.”

“I know,” Mycroft said. “But it’s a good reminder of why we do the things we do.”

“Why who does what things?”

“You and I. That there are still people who need protecting in the world.”

Greg wrapped his arm around his shoulders, pulling him in close. Mycroft went with him, leaning against his chest. “It’s not your fault,” Greg whispered. “You can’t control everything.”

Mycroft managed a small smile. “What silly person told you that?”

“You.”

Mycroft turned his head and met his lips in a soft kiss. “Take me to bed, Greg.”

“With pleasure.”

He took Greg’s hand and followed him there. He changed into his pyjamas while Greg used the bathroom. He checked his phone one last time and hoped enough time had gone by to guarantee that Sherlock was still alive. Greg switched off the lamp and spooned naked behind him, guiding Mycroft into his arms. Mycroft went willingly.

“I never asked about your day,” Mycroft whispered, closing his eyes.

“It was good.” Greg kissed the back of his neck. “Try to go to sleep.”

“I’m glad you’re here.”

“Me too.”

Mycroft felt his chest tighten, tears prick at his eyes. He swallowed.

“G’night, love,” Greg whispered.

Mycroft squeezed his eyes shut. “Goodnight,” he replied, keeping his voice as even as possible.

Greg relaxed his hold on Mycroft, but kept his chest pressed against his back. Mycroft gritted his teeth, listening through the darkness for the moment Greg’s breathing evened out.

When he knew Greg was asleep, he finally let out the shaking breath he was holding. He gripped the covers, and focused on Greg’s breathing so he could try to shut out every other thought.

* * *

The sound of a phone ringing pulled him from a dream he instantly forgot. He winced as he studied the bright screen. It was an unknown number. “Hello?” he answered, his voice thick with sleep.

“Hello, brother.”

Mycroft sat up. “Oh thank God,” he breathed out. “What are you doing now?”

“I was laying low," Sherlock answered, his voice so casual, he may as well have been whistling before he chose to ring Mycroft. "But I need to move sooner or later, someone clearly knows I’m here. I could take the plane out…”

“No, no, you can’t…”

“Well, I think Trepoff set it up.”

“Trepoff? Are you sure?”

“I’m sure. Not that I’ll ever be able to prove it. I have ideas, but I need some time to think them through.”

“Very well. Stay in touch. Throw that phone away as soon as you can.” He hung up. He turned to Greg who was eyeing him from over his shoulder quizzically. “Apologies,” Mycroft whispered, lying back down and spooning up behind Greg.

“No worries,” Greg said. “Everything good?”

“Yes,” Mycroft whispered. “Yes, it is for now.”

* * *

Mycroft left in the morning while Greg was still snoring. He arrived at work before the majority of his staff and waited for Sherlock to contact him. He didn’t.

Mycroft supposed it was too dangerous, or he hadn’t been able to get hold of another phone yet. But he couldn’t stand the waiting.

He sat at the Diogenes, his eyes focusing on a coffee stain on the carpet. He could create a persona of clear serenity, of peace, while inside he was lost inside the war he was waging in his mind. Even soft footsteps on the carpets were enough to make him tense. The soft rustle as a man turned a page in his newspaper set him on edge.

When he arrived back at the office, Anthea led him to one side. “Sherlock called,” she said. “I told him to call your mobile but… he said he’d rather not speak to you.”

Mycroft rolled his eyes. “Why?”

“Because he said you’d only tell him what to do and he has already made his mind up.”

“Wonderful…” Mycroft muttered. “He didn’t choose to inform you about this plan, did he?”

Anthea shot him a sympathetic smile. “He’s alive, unhurt, and he seems to be okay.”

Mycroft sighed. He supposed that was the most he could expect when it came to Sherlock. “Well then. Let’s just focus on clearing the way for his eventual return.”

* * *

That evening, he sought comfort in Greg. They sat together in Greg’s flat, Greg working away on some case at the small round table while Mycroft began to plan a new surveillance system, papers strewn around the settee. They watched the news as the Home Secretary, Andrew Regis, gave a speech about defending the country from terrorists.

“The country’s doomed,” Mycroft muttered, frowning.

Greg looked up from his paperwork, pushing his glasses back up his nose. “What happened?”

Mycroft pulled a face at the television. “Someone decided to give him power.”

Greg grinned. "How bad can he be?"

"Imagine putting the future of our national security in the hands of..." Mycroft waved his hand. "I don't know. The presenter of that ridiculous car show you watch."

"Jeremy Clarkson?"

"Quite."

Greg snorted. "He can't be that bad."

"He's worse," Mycroft replied. "Acts without thinking, and then has to get on his knees and beg for help, and for some reason, people always give it to him, because if they don't, he'll mess up everything. He's weak, thoughtless, immature. Shall I continue?"

"Best not," Greg said, turning back to his work.

"I'm going to get rid of him," Mycroft decided, sitting back in his chair. "I don't know how. But he'll be gone."

“It’s politics, love. You’re focusing on national security, remember?”

Mycroft sighed and adjusted the cushions behind his back. “I remember. I will need to go back into politics eventually. Politics and national security. Some of it is one and the same, after all.”

Greg glanced at him. “And you’re going to talk to me about it first, right? Because it made you miserable before, and you didn’t talk to me.”

Mycroft re-ordered some of his notes.  “I will be trying to get back into politics.”

“Foregone conclusion?” Greg asked.

“I have to. I’ll need to, in order to clear Sherlock’s name, and get this new surveillance equipment through.” He turned his attention away from his work and to where Greg was staring down at his paperwork instead. “Greg…”

“It’s okay.”

“Greg.”

Greg shrugged. “It’s fine, I knew you would. Just… just talk to me, yeah? Before you make up your mind about something, just come and talk to me. Because you always tell me how things are going to be and that’s fine, but sometimes I’d like to think my opinion matters too.”

“It’s work, Greg. I would never dictate to you how you live your life.”

“Christ, I know.”

Mycroft walked across the room to him, resting his hands on his shoulders from behind. “Talk to me.”

“You’ve just been so much happier, these last few months. And our relationship has been better, and I’ve seen you more.” Greg looked round at him. “Just remember what it felt like, when there was so much to do that you couldn’t even do any of it.”

“I remember. Greg, I haven’t made any decision without you, I promise you that.”

He waited while Greg turned his eyes away from him, staring back down at his paperwork. “Yeah. I know. Sorry.”

Mycroft kissed the top of his head. “Bad day?”

“Yeah.”

Mycroft leaned over him, turning a page in his papers, to the crime scene photographs. A teenager lay dead on a stairwell, stabbed in the abdomen.

“He was still alive when some of the PCs got there,” Greg muttered. “But by the time I arrived…”

Mycroft sighed and rubbed Greg's shoulders. “I’m sorry.”

“Staring at this isn’t helping but…”

Mycroft studied the photograph. “He has an indent in his chin.”

“What?” Greg frowned and squinted at the picture. “Oh yeah. What is that?”

“From a bicycle helmet.”

“A bike?”

“I assume there wasn’t a bicycle on the scene.”

“No,” Greg murmured. “Shit. You reckon someone stabbed him for a bike?”

Mycroft paused and kissed Greg’s temple. “It’s a possibility.”

“God, I hate people sometimes.”

Mycroft nodded. “Would you like me to give you some space?”

Greg gave Mycroft’s hand a brief squeeze. “No. But I’m going to keep working through this, if that’s alright with you?”

“I’m just on the other side of the room if you need me.”

Greg turned to him and managed a brief smile. “Yeah. Yeah, that’s good.” They shared a brief kiss before Mycroft wandered back to his work, keeping a close eye on Greg while he began to draft a report on his laptop.

* * *

 **December 2012.**  
**Location: Oxford Street, London, United Kingdom.**

The streets were far too full of people for Mycroft’s liking. The shop windows were already filled with an assortment of garish lights and mannequins wearing Santa hats. It was only December 1, and already festive cheer had hit the popular shopping area.

They weaved themselves through the pedestrian traffic, Mycroft glancing in at the shops as they went.

Finally Greg gave Mycroft’s arm a gentle tug and nodded his head towards the department store Debenhams. They were immediately hit by the scent of perfume from the counters, the horrid Christmas pop songs, and the sight of more tacky decorations hanging from the ceiling.

Biting his tongue, Mycroft let Greg lead him through the crowds until they could take the elevator to the first floor. They stopped in the menswear section. Mycroft reached for a tag on one of the suits. Just £99. For a whole suit. He raised his eyebrows. “Well, I suppose you’ll find everything you’ll need here," he said, running his fingers along the fabric. He supposed it wasn't as bad as he'd imagined, but it would never fit Greg as well as a tailored suit could.

Greg grinned at him. “It’s this, or I wear something I already own tonight.”

“No, no,” Mycroft said. “It’s fine. You choose what you like. I’m here purely for… a second opinion.”

Greg raised his eyebrows. “Are you judging these suits, Mycroft?”

“I’m sure you’ll find something to fit you. Not perfectly, but enough to get by.”

Greg laughed and began looking through the hangers. “I gave you one chance to dress me, remember?”

“Yes, I remember.”

“And you said, ‘you should wear whatever you like and I will never judge you for it’.”

“I stand by that.”

“But?”

Mycroft smiled and turned to look at the shirts. “You wear whatever you’re comfortable in.”

“Will it really bother you? If I turn up at this event with a cheap suit?”

“No, Greg. And I’d be surprised if anyone even noticed. And even if they did, they wouldn’t say anything. And frankly, I don’t care either way. You could wear jeans and a t-shirt tonight, and I’ll still be proud to have you with me. I choose my suits for… self-preservation as much as for style and for fit. But when you walk into a room, people have a habit of noticing you anyway, regardless of what you’re wearing.”

Greg huffed a laugh. “No one does that.”

“You turn heads. And you can’t tell me you don’t realise that.”

“I don’t turn heads.”

Mycroft smiled and picked out some shirts. “Try these. And I think you’d suit that grey suit. It’ll make a change from all the black ones.”

Greg grinned and started checking the sizes. “This isn’t a black tie do then?”

“No. It’s just a gathering.”

“A gathering with the Prime Minister and all the movers and shakers. And me.”

“The best of all of them," Mycroft told him. 

Greg flashed him a smile. “You know how to butter me up.”

Mycroft quirked a smile in return. “I’ve had plenty of practice.”

Greg laughed and carried the suit through to the changing rooms while Mycroft took a seat. He scrolled through his phone while he waited, and eventually Greg walked out, suit in hand. “I’ll get this one,” he announced.

Mycroft raised his eyebrows at him. “It’s the first one you’ve tried on.”

“And it fits and looks fine.”

Mycroft rose to his feet and waited while Greg paid for the suit. They walked back out into the crisp air before Greg dragged him into HMV to browse the DVDs.

“Over there,” Mycroft murmured near his ear. “That woman keeps trying to catch your eye.”

Greg laughed. “Liar.”

“She does. Her cheeks are flushed, she’s clearly attracted to you.”

“You’re making this up so you can make a point.”

“I am making a point," Mycroft admitted, "but I’m not making this up. As I told you. You turn heads.”

“Sure it’s not you she’s interested in?”

“Positive.” Mycroft raised his eyebrows as she glanced back in Greg’s direction. “Tell me you saw that.”

Greg laughed. “Yeah, I saw. Maybe there’s something on my face.”

Mycroft laughed and picked up a film. “Buy this one,” he said, adding it to Greg’s pile.

After HMV, Max drove them to somewhere Mycroft felt a little more at home. Savile Row was far less busy, filled with businessmen and tourists rather than tourists and frantic Christmas shoppers.

Mr Lewis’ tailoring shop had forgone Christmas decorations. Mycroft led Greg inside, his eyes immediately wandering over the collection.

“Mr Holmes,” Mr Lewis said, rising from his desk in the corner. He walked to them and shook Mycroft’s hand. “Have you brought me a new customer?”

Greg laughed and held up his Debenhams bag as Mycroft rolled his eyes. “No. I did suggest he bought from here, but apparently he trusts Debenhams,” Mycroft replied. “And who am I to argue?”

Mr Lewis tutted and wandered to the back of the shop. “They don’t know cut and fit, not like I do. They don’t know how to create a silhouette…”

“I think I’ve offended him,” Greg whispered as he walked into the backroom.

“You haven’t,” Mycroft promised. “We’ll buy a tie from here to make it up to him.”

“I could have… you know, you could have made me buy a better suit if you’d wanted to.”

“I’d never force you to wear something you didn’t want. Nor spend money on something you didn’t want to. I buy from here because I like it. I don’t need you to dress like me.”

Mr Lewis carried out Mycroft’s new suits. Mycroft picked a tie out for Greg to add to the clothes, and they carried everything out to the car together.

Mycroft asked Max to drop the clothes back at Crusader House and he and Greg went for a walk. They popped into a small jewellery store, one specialising in secondhand and antique items.

“Will you let me treat you?” Mycroft asked, as he surveyed the cufflinks.

Greg stood at his side. “Yeah. Course I will.”

Pleased, Mycroft asked the shop owner to let him hold a few of the cufflinks. “I got these in just yesterday,” the woman said, taking out a pair of gold, triangular cufflinks with a blue and green opal setting.

Mycroft held them in the palm of his hand. “Do you like them?” he asked.

Greg smiled and took hold of one. “Yeah. Yeah, I’ll wear these.”

“They will look wonderful, I’m sure,” the shop owner said. She boxed them up and Mycroft paid before tucking the box into his pocket. They took a leisurely walk back to Pall Mall, popping into a Chinese takeaway on the way.

Greg spread the food out on the kitchen table while Mycroft rang Anthea.

“Good afternoon,” she said brightly.

“Anthea,” Mycroft replied. “I’m putting you on loud-speaker. Greg’s here.” He pressed the button and lay the phone down on the table between them.

“Hi, Anth,” Greg said, passing the sweet chilli sauce across to Mycroft. “You coming tonight?”

“I wouldn’t miss it,” she replied. “What did you both want to know?”

“Greg has some concerns about protocols,” Mycroft explained. “You know more about it than I do.”

“Only because you automatically know what to do," she replied. "You wait for the Prime Minister to approach you, or be led to you, not the other way around. Always carry a drink, even if you’re not drinking it. Otherwise they just think you’re desperate to leave. Everyone will be introduced to you as Mr So-And-So. Don’t go onto first-name terms, unless it's me, or Arnou or Mads or someone else you know. Stand up when the top people enter the room. You’ll recognise the PM and Mycroft can point out anyone else of note. And don’t worry about the rest. They’re all human beings, and most of them don’t play nicely anyway.”

“It’s a relatively informal evening,” Mycroft said. “It isn’t black tie. Anthea, have you got any confirmation on the guest list?”

“Yes, Nadia Swift sent it through to me, finally. The usual suspects, Hugh Seagroves, Sylvia Ross, Ruth Barker. And Mads is going. I think it’ll be his first formal engagement, so Arnou and I will take him under our wing.”

“I appreciate that.”

“Our very, very favourite Home Secretary will be there,” Anthea said, disdain dripping from her tone. “He still hasn’t commented on your surveillance programme.”

“Naturally,” Mycroft murmured. “Has Sylvia spoken to him?”

“I believe she’s waiting for this evening to corner him. Perhaps if you both do it, he’ll think he has no way out.”

“That’s our primary aim for this evening,” Mycroft said. “I want that funding. If we can get him to take Sherlock’s case back to the Attorney General then we can consider it a roaring success.”

“Anything else, sir?”

“Let’s become friends with the Prime Minister again, shall we?”

“Leave that to me. Sylvia Ross has recommended the Prime Minister pass his personal congratulations onto Mads for some of his latest work. It'll be the perfect opportunity for me to... make amends for past transgressions.”

“And it will mean I won't need to speak to him," Mycroft replied. "Even better. Then we’ll see you this evening.”

“See you later.”

Mycroft hung up and touched Greg’s hand. “Better?”

“Yeah. Maybe.”

Mycroft smiled at him. “Be yourself. That’s all you ever need to do.”

They finished their dinner before taking turns to shower. Mycroft stuck to his usual routines, dressing as if for some sort of war rather than a social engagement. Not a hair could be out of place. Every accessory was chosen for the signals it gave off. He tied Greg’s tie for him, smiling, noting how Greg took a far more casual approach to it all. His shoes weren’t overly scuffed, but nor were they polished. He didn’t have day-old stubble, but nor was his face perfectly smooth.

Nadia Swift had recently married some rich businessmen involved in the IT industry. They had moved into a large estate on the outskirts of London, a weekend retreat, somewhere they could enjoy their wealth and success.

Mycroft and Greg had arrived a while after the majority of the guests. From beside him, Mycroft sensed Greg’s nerves. He gave his hand the briefest of squeezes. “May I introduce you as my partner?” Mycroft asked him.

Greg glanced at him before nodding his head. “Yeah. If you want.”

“I do want. Now, relax. You are undoubtedly the most fascinating person in this room.”

Greg managed a laugh and let Mycroft lead him to the gathering, each collecting a glass of champagne. Mycroft quickly surveyed the scene, spotting Anthea in deep conversation with the Foreign Secretary. Arnou was talking to Mads.

And from a seat beside the fireplace, Sylvia Ross was staring directly at Mycroft, eyebrows raised. She made a ‘come hither’ motion with her finger.

“There is no escape,” Mycroft murmured, gently guiding Greg towards her. “Sylvia Ross,” he added to remind him.

“Mycroft,” she said as they reached her, standing and letting him take and then kiss her hand. “And… Don’t remind me. My memory isn’t failing me yet. Greg Lestrade, was it?”

“Yes, it is,” Greg said.

She beamed at him. “And you’re… A Detective Inspector.”

“Detective Chief Inspector now.”

“Very well deserved, I imagine,” she said. “Now, Greg, may I call you Greg?”

Greg laughed, a little nervously. “Of course.”

“Greg," she cooed. "You must absolutely hate these things. My husband always did. I hardly ever see you at these sorts of events, not that Mycroft has been to many of late.” As if to make the point, she shot Mycroft a look. “Now, dear,” she said, taking Greg’s arm in hers and patting it. “Here is a tip for you, one I always used to remind my Hubert. Almost every single person in this room thinks the earth revolves around them. They are the most narcissistic people you will ever have the displeasure of meeting. So, do not be nervous. Because believe me, they’re so busy fluffing their own pathetic egos that they won’t even realise you don’t think you belong here.” She turned her attention to Mycroft, reaching for his hand. “Look after him, Mycroft. The poor man is too lovely to be swimming with all these sharks.”

“Yes, I know,” Mycroft said, smiling fondly at Greg. “He’s good to humour me by accompanying me tonight.”

Sylvia smiled at them both. “Well, don’t let this old woman keep you. Mycroft has work to do, I’m sure.” She looked around the room. “Dear me, Mycroft. Judging by some of the heated looks some of the single young ladies have been flashing Greg here, you are a very lucky man indeed.”

Mycroft only just held back his laughter. “Believe me, I know,” he said, giving Sylvia a kiss on the cheek. “We will catch up later, after we’ve spoken to Mr Regis.”

“I can hardly contain my excitement for that particular conversation,” she muttered. “Vile creature.” She unhooked her arm from Greg’s. “And if it all gets too much, come and find me, Greg, dear. I can tell you some tales, I promise you that.”

“I look forward to it,” Greg replied, smiling as Mycroft gently took his elbow. “We’ll see you later.”

She beamed at them again. “I hope so,” she replied, collecting her handbag and walking towards Andrew Regis.

“Does she still think we’re married?” Greg asked.

“I doubt it, since you’re no longer wearing a ring,” Mycroft replied. “She will have realised her mistake within a few seconds of seeing you tonight. How are you?"

"Fine. Why do you keep asking that?"

“Because you’re nervous. Because you don’t think you belong here at my side.” Mycroft gently touched his chin, tilting his head so they could look one another in the eye. “And because I want to introduce you to everyone in this room as being with me. And even if they think I’m soft, and think lesser of me… then so be it. I’m proud to be yours.”

“So am I,” Greg replied. They held one another’s gaze for a moment.

Ignoring any looks their way, Mycroft gave his fingers a brief squeeze. He turned his head. “Hugh,” he said, reaching out and shaking Hugh Seagroves’ hand. “I don’t believe you have met my partner, Detective Chief Inspector Greg Lestrade of the Metropolitan Police.”

It was a delight for Mycroft to have the chance to show Greg off. And Greg seemed to grow in confidence as he realised he wasn’t being judged and no one was trying to catch him out.

And then Mycroft caught sight of Andrew Regis, smug smile plastered on his face. Andrew Regis was the only man on earth who did not despise Andrew Regis. Mycroft had to fight all his impulses so he could keep his expression as neutral and welcoming as possible.

“Ah, is this the better half, Mycroft?” Regis asked, holding his hand out to Greg.

Greg laughed politely as he shook it. “Greg Lestrade,” he said.

“Andrew Regis,” the man replied. “Home Secretary.”

“Ah,” Greg said, and it was though he suddenly remembered all of Mycroft’s comments about him, as he seemed to tense, displaying a look of dislike he rarely showed anyone. Mycroft wrapped his arm around his waist, unable to feel just a little bit of swelling pride.

“Did you get your surveillance system then?” Regis asked, sipping his champagne.

“The Prime Minister seems to appreciate its qualities,” Mycroft said. “But I believe yours is the opinion that matters most.”

Regis smiled coolly. “Don’t put me on a pedestal, Mycroft.”

“Hardly,” Mycroft said. “You owe me.”

“I owe a lot of people,” Regis said.

“You owe me the most.” Mycroft held his eyes, one eyebrow raised.

“Look, I’m sorry about all that,” Regis finally said. “But it’s budgets. We don’t have it.”

“My dead brother,” Mycroft said. “Is suspected of murders he never committed. The least you could allow is the opportunity for me to present a case to the Attorney General to clear his name.”

“Look, Mycroft, Mycroft, I’m sorry I-”

“-I won’t accept your apologies,” Mycroft said. “Not when I know the reason why you won’t allow him the opportunity to review the case.”

Regis swallowed. “I’ll get you the security system,” Regis said, wiping sweat from his brow. “I’ll do it, you’ll get it. But I can’t convince the Attorney General, I’m all out of favours with him now I…”

Mycroft lifted his hand. “Thank you, Andrew,” he murmured. “You may leave us now.”

Regis nodded. “Yes. Of course.” He turned to Greg. He opened his mouth and then closed it again. “Very well,” he said and turned away, walking towards the Prime Minister on the other side of the room.

Greg raised his eyebrows. “What the hell did he do?” he asked Mycroft.

Mycroft kept his eye on him as he explained. “He knew the Attorney General had your case on his desk to clear Sherlock’s name. But he was close to losing his job as Home Secretary after the Moriarty break-ins at the Tower Of London, Pentonville and the Bank Of England. The Attorney General is a close personal friend of the Prime Minister. If the Attorney General ensured Mr Regis did not lose his job, then Mr Regis would take Sherlock’s case off his desk.”

“Why would the Attorney General not want Sherlock’s case?” Greg asked.

“Because in taking it, he would appear foolish. Why waste all that money on a case involving two dead men?” Mycroft asked.

“Oh. Politics is shit.”

“Quite right,” Mycroft said, slipping his hand into Greg’s. “But believe me when I tell you I can play that game better than every single person in this room. Let’s go,” Mycroft said.

Greg just nodded. “Sure.”

Mycroft kept hold of his hand as he led him back outside and to the car.

“So everyone knows you’re gay?” Greg asked as they began to drive away.

“They certainly do now,” Mycroft said with a smile.

Greg laughed. “So, how did you come out?”

“Many people used to think Anthea and I were together,” Mycroft said. “We often attended parties together. And she is a very attractive woman, and had to reject her fair share of advances. Of course, when she got married people began to question my relationship status. Not helped, of course, by my grandfather’s ring on my finger. I never had anything to hide. I’ve never been ashamed.”

Greg smiled at him. “I like that.”

Mycroft hummed and watched out of the window. “I suppose it was a relatively successful evening,” he remarked. “And you were perfect.”

Greg just laughed and held his hand on the way back to Crusader House.

* * *

Two days later, he had his multi-million-pound surveillance system for MI5. Nadia Swift sent him a box of chocolates as a thank you, which he shared around his office.

* * *

He woke up on Christmas Day with Greg snoring next to him, having stolen the majority of the duvet. Mycroft huffed and tugged it back.

“Oi,” Greg mumbled.

“You stole the covers.”

“And now you’re stealing them.”

“My half of them.”

Greg grumbled and rolled over, resting his head on Mycroft’s chest. “Two wrongs don’t make a right.”

Mycroft smiled and wrapped his arms around him. “Good morning.”

Greg yawned and nuzzled Mycroft’s neck. “Mmm. Mornin’. Are you moving?”

“I wasn’t planning to.”

Greg let out a pleased sound, resting on leg on top of Mycroft’s. They lay content for a while until Greg groaned. “I’m dying for a cigarette.”

Mycroft sighed and stroked his hair. “We may as well get up then,” he said, kissing Greg’s head. “Up you get.”

He couldn’t take his eyes off Greg as his lover slid out of bed, stretching his arms up above his head as he stood in his naked glory. It was only when Greg put on his pyjamas and wandered out to the balcony that Mycroft used the bathroom and showered.

His housekeeper had filled his fridge with everything a Christmas feast could possibly need, and Mycroft began to peel the potatoes and prepare the vegetables while Greg got dressed.

By the time lunchtime came around, they had both prepared a full roast dinner with a duck as the centrepiece. They ate in the kitchen, enjoying the luxury of red wine in the early afternoon.

A little part of Mycroft pined for Oak Manor, for the rolling countryside, the blessed silence which could only come from somewhere remote. He had woken in a strange mood, lost in sentimental imaginings of relaxed Christmases with his family which never really happened. No, he had spent far too many of those occasions waiting for something to go wrong.

So even as he sat, belly full, mind nicely soothed by the alcohol, there was an ache in his chest. He wondered where his brother was, whether he had even remembered it was Christmas. He imagined his mother’s roast potatoes, far better than his and Greg’s attempt had been.

It was Greg who suggested they go for a walk. Wrapped up in coats and scarves, they held hands through the deserted park, commenting only on the weather and their favourite parts of London, as though there was nothing important to worry about.

By the time they had got back, Mycroft’s head felt clearer and then went to bed, with Greg insisting they watch The Muppet Christmas Carol.

And Mycroft couldn’t help but laugh.

* * *

 **January 2013.**  
**Location: Crusader House, Pall Mall, London.**

He insisted Greg stay with him for a few more days, even after they had both gone back to work. He had begun to crave Greg’s company when he got back from work. Even when he ordinarily had wanted some peace and quiet, he wanted peace and quiet with Greg. And peace and quiet no longer meant silence, but to be close to Greg, to watch his moods, listen to the account of his day.

His flat wasn’t truly his own anymore. He realised it as he washed his hands in the bathroom, and saw Greg’s watch in the cabinet. Mycroft’s home was slowly becoming filled with his belongings, some of Greg’s DVDs now a part of Mycroft’s collection, a few of Greg’s books taking up space on the shelves. If he went into the bedroom, he knew he would find Greg’s discarded shirts in the laundry bag, his cufflinks on the dresser with Mycroft’s.

And it was… nice, he thought, to find Greg’s belongings in his home. To think that the man was comfortable there, comfortable in Mycroft’s life. It wouldn’t stay that way, Mycroft thought, not if Greg knew the truth about Sherlock and the truth about the things he’d kept from him.

Greg would leave when he found out about Sherlock being alive. Mycroft was absolutely certain of that fact. But still. Wasn’t it nice to have the man so close for as long as he could?

Mycroft put their toothbrushes in the same glass. He couldn’t deny how right it looked. That there were two of them here, sharing a life. Living in rooms in each other’s hearts.  
Greg had filled all the empty spaces in his life. It felt as though he’d always belonged here.

Mycroft loved the orderliness of his home. Greg didn’t quite meet his standards of tidiness, and he didn’t always remember to put his dirty clothes in the washing basket. He didn’t always clean his plates straight after meals and sometimes he left coffee rings on the table.

But Greg’s mess made Mycroft feel settled. Content. Where he’d once felt stranded in the middle of a vast ocean, alone, not expecting to be close to another human being for the rest of his life… he wasn’t now.

He had someone. He glanced down at their toothbrushes in the same glass and nodded to himself. That was right, somehow. Perfect. 

That evening, he took Greg out to a restaurant in Greenwich, somewhere Anthea had recommended. But his heart was racing. They met at the restaurant, sharing a brief kiss outside before sitting down at their table. 

Greg had come straight from work, his cheeks flushed from the cold, some indeterminate stain on his shirt. Yet Mycroft was sure he was more handsome than he had ever seen him. Mycroft asked for a bottle of champagne, certain the faster he could get a glass of bubbles and alcohol inside him, the faster he could settle his nerves. 

“Good day?” Greg asked him.

“Better than I expected. And you?”

“Yeah, not bad. Just inter-departmental politics. But it was fine.” The waitress carried over a bottle and some glasses. Greg poured their glasses, and they tapped them together. “Happy anniversary, love.”

Mycroft smiled and reached over, taking Greg’s hands in his. “Happy anniversary,” he replied. God, he couldn’t say it. Something so easy. Will you move in with me? But not easy, because he was somehow afraid that Greg would say no. That he thought their lives were perfect as it was. He had never mentioned the idea of moving in together. Perhaps Greg wouldn’t want it?

Greg let go of him and returned to studying his menu, clearly completely unaware of the fluttering in Mycroft's stomach. Mycroft ordered some chicken and Greg went for fish.

“Can’t believe it’s been a year,” Greg said.

“I know. It’s gone by very quickly.”

“How did it happen?” Greg asked.

“How did what happen?”

“That you came to the Yard,” Greg explained. “When I sent the email to the Attorney General and then went for a cigarette.”

“Ah,” Mycroft said. “The Attorney General’s emails are also received by one of Anthea’s staff, who in turn told Anthea, who then told me. And she persuaded me to go to you.”

Greg stared at him. “This was all due to Anthea?”

“I would have gone to see you eventually,” Mycroft said. “Though I suppose by then it may have been too late.”

“I already thought it was too late. I was convinced it was done, Mycroft. I thought it had to be. I wasn’t sure I could forgive you.”

“And you did?”

“Course I did.”

Mycroft looked up at him. “What couldn’t you forgive, Greg?” he asked softly, silently offering his lover a way out before he even asked the question.

“I don’t know,” Greg said, narrowing his eyes. “What don’t you think I will forgive? Your big work-related secret? I can live with whatever that is.”

Mycroft looked down at his cutlery. “We’ll see.”

“You think I’m going to leave you. What reason did I give you to think that I was ever going to leave you?”

Mycroft shook his head. “Leave it now. Let’s enjoy our meal.”

“Mycroft,” Greg murmured, reaching out to touch his hand. “I’m in this for the long haul, alright? Mycroft,” Greg urged, reaching forward to touch his chin, persuading him to look across at him. “It’s alright to be worried about it, but… you really don’t need to be.”

“Will you leave it?” Mycroft snapped, looking up at him. He felt his chest clench as Greg flinched. But rather than retreat, Greg dropped his hand to Mycroft’s arm. “What are you doing?” Mycroft asked.

“Reassuring you,” Greg said.

“Why?”

“Because I’m not leaving you. Not now, not when you spill your big secret, not if you start a nuclear war. Whatever happens, we’re going to get through it.”

“You’re unduly optimistic.”

Greg shrugged. “I’ve just never felt like this before.”

“Nor have I.”

“I know. That’s how I know it’s okay to get worried.”

Mycroft nodded, resting his hand on Greg’s. “I have given our arrangement quite a lot of thought in the past few months.”

Greg grinned at him. “Arrangement? Is that what you’re calling this?”

“Our living arrangement. I want you to live with me.”

Greg smiled across at him. “You do?”

“It seems the next logical step,” Mycroft said. “You spend far more time at Crusader House than you do at your own flat.”

Greg grinned. “No, that’s not it.”

Mycroft frowned back. “Yes it is.”

“No. Say it.”

“Say what exactly?” Mycroft asked, watching as Greg sat back in his chair, unnecessarily smug. Mycroft let out a soft sigh. “I like it when you’re around,” he admitted.

“Alright,” Greg said. “When?”

“When what?”

“When do you want me to move in?”

Mycroft began to smile at him, stroking his fingers against Greg’s knuckles. “As soon as possible.”

“How about I start shifting some stuff over tomorrow?”

“Yes,” he agreed. Though inside he knew its permanence would not be secured until Sherlock was home. Until Greg was presented with the evidence... and would choose to leave. Or be persuaded to stay.

* * *

The following weekend, they stood in what had been Greg’s living room, checking nothing had been left behind. Mycroft wasn’t sure if he had anything to say. It felt right for them to be moving in together. Another chapter beginning.

For Greg, this had been his home for almost as long as they had known one another. He had lived here with his ex-wife and her dog. He’d made a life here, one so separate from the one he shared now with Mycroft.

And yet, so many of their memories had been made here too. They’d danced on that carpet, made love in his bedroom, eaten countless takeaways and kissed for hours on his settees.

As Greg closed the door and locked it for the final time, Mycroft found himself needing to take his hand, to reassure himself that it was real. Greg looked at him and pressed a kiss to his cheek. “Are you alright?” he asked.

Still filled with a lingering uncertainty, Mycroft could only turn to face him and let himself be guided into his arms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I imagine the cufflinks to be something like this: http://shop.placergolddesign.com/products/opal-cufflinks


	66. Classifed

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is dedicated to my hero, Edward Snowden, without whom I would have had no inspiration for the work GCHQ and Mycroft do. (I've edited the RL dates to fit the fic, but meh). 
> 
> Happy new year, folks. Much love! xxx

**January 2013.**

**Location: Crusader House, Pall Mall, London.**

That first morning, with half of Greg’s possessions still in boxes, Mycroft wondered if they had done the right thing. He was sure he would be difficult to live with. He was concerned Greg would have high expectations on how often Mycroft would be home. That for one reason or another, they couldn’t slot their lives seamlessly together.

He dwelt on it for the rest of the day, silently listing all the reasons they would struggle to live together and it would all fall apart. 

But by that evening, when he got home to find Greg making dinner, he realised he’d found the little piece which had been missing in his life. He kissed his cheek and helped him dish up. They talked and worked and went to bed.

And before he went to sleep, Mycroft watched Greg. And as he closed his eyes and smiled to himself, he acknowledged for the first time that it would be okay.

They would be okay.

* * *

**February 2013.**

**Location: Crusader House, Pall Mall, London.**

“Well, that was a revelation,” Mycroft remarked, staring at the television, blinking at it.

From beside him, Greg laughed, leaning forward to top up their wine glasses. “I don’t really know what to say.”

“I thought giraffes were quite peaceful creatures.”

“Yeah, I did too,” Greg replied. They were half-way through watching a David Attenborough documentary, and a giraffe fight had taken them both aback.

Mycroft shook his head in disbelief. “Cheese and biscuits?” he asked.

Greg laughed. “That’s your reaction to the brutal giraffe fight? Cheese and biscuits?”

“There’s always a time for cheese and biscuits,” Mycroft replied, kissing Greg’s cheek before pushing himself off the settee. He padded through to the kitchen, fishing his phone from his trouser pocket and checking it. There was nothing to worry about. He took the cheese out of the fridge, laying it out on a tray along with crackers and butter.

He settled back down beside his partner, the food laid out on the table in front of them while Greg flicked onto the next episode of Africa. It was just 15 minutes in, when Mycroft’s phone rang. He checked the name and frowned. He couldn’t recall Ruth Barker calling him in a long time.

“Hello?” he answered.

“Mycroft. Thank God.”

“Ruth… what’s going on?”

“Have you seen The Guardian?”

“The Guardian?” Mycroft reached forward for his iPad, quickly typing in the web address, while Greg paused the TV.

“Just look at it,” Ruth said.

“I’m in the process… just a moment.” The page finally loaded and he read the headline. _NSA collecting phone records of millions of telecoms’ customers daily._

“Well?” Ruth insisted.

“Hang on, I can’t read that quickly.”

“You don’t need to. There’s be a leak, Mycroft, and there could be more and they could… Our surveillance system. GCHQ’s. It could all be out there in a matter of days.”

Mycroft shot Greg an apologetic look before rising from his chair, carrying his iPad and phone to his office. He turned the light on and shut the door behind him. “When did you find out about this?” he asked as he sat down at his desk.

“About 15 minutes after the story was published.”

“It’s a very specific story,” Mycroft said. “It’s only one aspect of the NSA’s work, one telecoms company.”

_The document shows communication records of millions of US citizens are being collected indiscriminately and in bulk – regardless of whether they are suspected of any wrongdoing._

“The document itself is online,” Mycroft said, frowning. “Anyone can click on it and read it. This might be it, Ms Barker. We’ve no reason to suspect GCHQ is going to come into any of this.”

“We’re tied up with them. If there’s more, we’ll be included.”

“Well, it’s too late to protect yourselves now.”

“ _Ourselves_ ,” Ruth said.

Mycroft paused, frowning. “Yes,” he murmured. “Too late to protect ourselves. I’ll leave you to liaise with the NSA.”

“Will you put pressure on the newspaper? Some sort of law against publishing classified information?”

“Not yet,” Mycroft replied. “Not while we don’t know what this is. Let the paper have this victory. It may be all they have.” He hung up the phone and read the story again in full. He looked up at the knock on the door. “Come in,” he called to Greg.

Greg poked his head around the door. “Hey. I might go to bed if you’re working.”

“I’m not. There’s nothing I can do about this.”

“Can I ask what it is?”

“A USA security leak.”

“Bad?” Greg asked.

“For them, certainly.”

“You okay?”

“Yes, I…” Mycroft frowned. “I shouldn’t say this. But I can’t help but think it serves them right. They over-reached.” He blinked, as though surprised at himself.

Greg grinned. “Yeah. Not sure you’re supposed to even think that.”

“Ah, but the Government hasn’t got the power to regulate my thoughts.”

“Not planning to make thinking illegal, are they?”

“Don’t worry, this isn’t 1984 yet. Someone leaked this. Somehow I don’t think this is all there is. It’s big, big enough to make an impact in America. But if this comes from an NSA employee… then there could be so much more than this.”

“Will it cause a problem for you?” Greg asked. 

“Not directly. Well. Not that I can foresee.” He turned his iPad off and sat back in his chair. “Shall we get back to Attenborough?”

“Are you sure?”

“I’ll be able to think while watching it, if nothing else,” Mycroft decided.

The next day came the news he was half-expecting. _The UK is gathering information from world’s biggest internet firms._

He was joined by Anthea as he read through the published documents, shaking his head in disbelief. “This is all accurate,” he said. “These are genuine documents. And they’re recent too.”

“What do we need to do?” Anthea asked.

“Most of this looks like a leak from the NSA. So, the chances are, it is an American employee and not our problem.”

“But?”

“Whoever it is could have a British accomplice.” He paused as his phone rang.

He exchanged a look with Anthea before she answered. “Coeur de Lion Offices, Mycroft Holmes’ phone.” Her eyes widened. “Of course, I will ask him to go straight away.” She hung up. “The Prime Minister wants to see you as a matter of urgency.”

Mycroft sighed and slipped his coat on. “Can you print everything the Guardian and New York Times have published? I want every file they’ve uploaded.”

“Of course, sir.”

He read his messages as he travelled to Downing Street, caught in the middle of a frantic email exchange between Ruth Barker, Nadia Swift and Hugh Seagroves. By the time he arrived at Downing Street, Ruth was already waiting inside the reception area.

She didn’t say anything as he approached, merely spun on her heels and led the way to the Prime Minister’s office. His secretary showed them in. The Prime Minister was sat behind his desk, and Home Secretary Andrew Regis in the seat opposite, legs crossed and stretched out in front of him. As he met Mycroft’s eyes, Mycroft was sure he could see the hint of a smug smile on his face.

Regis slowly rose from his seat, offering it to Ruth who shook her head. “Thank you,” she replied, holding her hand up. “But I’d rather not.”

Regis shrugged and sat back down again. “Suit yourself,” he drawled. “I’ll leave it to you to begin, Mr Prime Minister.”  

“Right, of course,” the Prime Minister said. He looked between Mycroft and Ruth, licking his bottom lip. “These leaks. Is this it or is there more?”

“We don’t know,” Ruth told him, crossing her arms.

“Mycroft?”

“I suspect there is more,” Mycroft said. “The first report was published on a Wednesday, a story they could have saved for the weekend papers. I expect there is more. They’re building them up for a big revelation at the weekend.”

“And how do you know?” Regis asked.

Mycroft raised his eyebrows. “We all know how the press works.”

“How would someone go about leaking this sort of information?” the Prime Minister asked.

“They would make contact with a journalist they thought to be trustworthy, and convince them of their authenticity.”

“You have experience of leaking information to the press,” Regis said, eyeing him.

Mycroft straightened a fraction, regarding them. “I do. As does everyone in this room. We do what we do to get what we need.”

Regis continued to watch him, that half-smile still fixed on his face. “And we all know you have been less than complimentary of Ms Barker’s methods of surveillance and intelligence-gathering in the past.”

Mycroft raised his eyebrows. “Why would I leak this?” he asked. “I have as much to lose - more to lose - than anyone else in this country.”

“So you’re denying it?”

“Of course I’m bloody denying it,” Mycroft snapped. He took a breath to compose himself. “We will have more information the moment I’m allowed to go back to work and do my job.”

He exchanged a long look with the Prime Minister. “Very well,” the Prime Minister said, gesturing to the door. “Thank you for your time, Mr Holmes, I am sure I’ll be in touch.”

Mycroft spun around and left the room. He was about to let out a sigh of relief when he heard someone clear their throat. He turned round to where Regis was closing the door, smirking.

“I assume you enjoyed that,” Mycroft said, eyes narrowed at him.

Regis grinned. “Oh, I never get any pleasure from watching people dig a hole for themselves. Except in this case.”

Mycroft rolled his eyes, turning away from him without another word.

“You can’t think you’ll get away with it this time,” Regis called out to him.

Mycroft stopped in his tracks. He straightened and slowly turned back to face him, eyebrows raised. “I wouldn’t put a bet on that, Mr Regis,” he said, his voice low and commanding. A cool smile played on the corner of his mouth. “If I were in your shoes, I would be a little more careful about the enemies you make. Put one more toe over the line, and I will have no qualms about destroying you.” His eyes swept briefly over Regis’ face, taking some pleasure out of seeing his smile falter. “Have a nice afternoon, Mr Regis.”

With a nod of his head to the stunned secretary, he strolled out of Downing Street with a twirl of his umbrella.

* * *

Later that same afternoon, he received a note from the Attorney General.

 

_Mycroft,_

_After much consideration, I have decided I am willing to recommend Sherlock Holmes’ and Richard Brook’s inquest appeals be heard at the High Court._

_However, I can only do this if we have your sworn testimony. I will require you to testify in court. All of the information you provide will, of course, be in the public domain._

 

He re-read the note a few times, considering it. Sherlock’s case was now nothing more than a political ping pong ball. Perhaps Mycroft had overstepped the mark with Regis that morning. But he knew Andrew Regis, knew him to be spineless and unintelligent. But Regis could still play politics. He knew the games. He knew how to owe people favours. And he knew Mycroft could not afford to make any sort of public testimony.

There would be too many questions. Questions over his job, his relationship with Sherlock, his relationship with ‘Richard Brook’. And Regis was friends with the Attorney General. And with the right people on his side, he could learn everything. Everything about Sherrinford. Everything about the Coeur de Lion. And it would become public knowledge.

It would tear everything apart.

His address would be published in the newspapers next to his name, perhaps even alongside his picture. And those he had wronged, and there were many he had wronged, would find him. Find Greg.

And though for a brief moment, he thought it would be freeing to say goodbye to the life he had built himself, to take Greg with him to some remote country with tropical climes, he knew it was unfeasible and not what he would ultimately want.

Taking great care over his wording, he typed out his reply.

 

_I want to offer my sincere gratitude for your willingness to consider this case. I understand this is a unique situation, and one which I would urge you to give your full attention._

_On the matter of me testifying, I am afraid I will have to refuse._

_You understand why, of course._

_Sincerely,_

_Mycroft Holmes._

 

* * *

**March 2013.**

**Location: Coeur de Lion Offices, Mayfair, London.**

Over the course of the next few days, Mycroft sat with Anthea at the office, sifting through the published documents and cross-referencing them with their own reports to see just how much was being released.

By 10pm on the fourth day, Mycroft had enough. “This is the tip of the iceberg,” he murmured. “They could have thousands more papers like this, and with the touch of a button, they could be all over the internet.”

“What are you suggesting?” Anthea asked.

“I’m going home. I suggest you do the same.”

“I might stay a little longer. Arnou’s on a trip.”

Mycroft studied her. She had dark circles under her eyes, as though she had spent much of that week staying late at work. “Do you want to get a drink?” Mycroft asked. “Greg’s at work this evening.”

“Are you sure?”

Mycroft collected his coat. “Of course.”

She smiled up at him and collected their files. Kamik drove them to Crusader House, where Mycroft poured them each a glass of wine. When he returned to the living room, Anthea had kicked her heels off and was stretched across his sofa, highlighter poised above the report she was reading.

“You can stop working,” Mycroft said with an amused smile as he dragged a chair closer, picking up some of the papers she had left by her feet.

“They’ve just published more.”

Anthea handed over her phone, and Mycroft sighed, skim-reading the documents. “This is all about the NSA, not us,” he said. “Still, Ruth Barker ensured GCHQ got into bed with them, and now we’re catching all their diseases.”

Anthea laughed. “Does this mean anything for us?”

“Potentially. If there is enough public outcry in the UK, they could review the entire intelligence-gathering programme. Information you and I can access at the touch of a button will be taken out of our hands. Officially, at least. Governments have a tendency to talk big, but they’ll find new ways to get what they want.”

“In the name of national security.”

Mycroft paused. “In the name of it, yes. I remember the pre-internet days, of course. I remember collecting and analysing signal intelligence - Sigint. Even then, sometimes it felt as though there was far too much. Now we can collect almost everything. How do you find what you’re looking for out of that chaos?”

“A computer system?” Anthea asked.

“Yes, an unlimited search engine for everyone’s text and social media messages. The thing is, Anthea, the NSA and GCHQ have been involved in spying on foreign diplomats. And foreign leaders, for that matter, for four years now. You and I have unlimited access to that data. But imagine the reaction of a president who discovers their supposed allies have been spying on them for all that time? If that is in those documents, which wouldn’t surprise me, we are going to be dealing with a lot of embarrassed leaders. Leaders who may give away more than they want, in their rush to make amends.”

Anthea hummed. “You can exploit this. Use it as an opportunity to prove your negotiation skills.”

“Certainly. But I think this is a time in which I need to be more discreet. The Attorney General-” He stopped as a key turned in the lock and Greg wandered in.

He grinned at them both. “Look at you two, causing trouble,” he said, closing the door and hanging his coat up. “Hi, Anthea.”

“Hello,” she replied, smiling at him. “Care you join us?”

“I’d love to, but I’ve got to get to bed,” Greg said. “I’m needed in the morning. We’ve got some new PCs getting all their certificates, and I need to be there for the passing out ceremony.” He wandered across the room until he came to a stop behind Mycroft’s chair, dropping a kiss on top of his head. “Bosses have been talking about that all morning,” he said, pointing to the documents in Mycroft’s hand. “Worried we’re not going to be able to catch terrorists anymore.”

Mycroft looked up at him. “I’m sure everyone will muddle through.” They exchanged a soft kiss. “Go to bed, I’ll join you in a little while.”

“It’s alright, take your time and finish your wine. Night, both.” Greg smiled at them both and wandered to the bedroom.

Anthea smiled. “He truly is a sight for sore eyes,” she said as he closed the door.

“I’m well aware,” Mycroft replied, quietly pleased as he topped up their glasses.

“The Attorney General?” Anthea prompted.

“He said he would open the case into…” He frowned and quickly signed ‘S-h-e-r-l-o-c-k’ with his hands. “But only if I testified and provided evidence. But the case would be public and… I didn’t think I can take that risk, not in the present climate.”

“He doesn’t know?” Anthea asked, frowning. She nodded her head to the bedroom. “About… everything?”

“No.”

“You should.”

“It’s not your place to decide.”

“I know. But I think… I think he needs to know.”

“When he needs to know, then he will. Now is not the time.”

“He might not leave.”

Mycroft narrowed his eyes at her. “Anthea…”

“He loves you,” she mouthed. “I think he’d forgive you.”

“I don’t want to find out if you’re right about that or not. Not yet.”

She sighed and put her papers down, drinking more of her wine. “When you decided to join the secret services, did you ever think about what it meant for your family?” she asked. 

Mycroft frowned for a moment. “No,” he admitted. “I didn’t. I never dreamt they’d be in harm’s way.”

“I think that’s why they recruited me. That I had no family ties at all. I think they thought I was completely disposable.”

“There now, that isn’t true,” Mycroft reminded her. “You are very capable, and Sylvia Ross took a personal interest in you because of your talents.”

“I wasn’t that special. I don’t think more quickly than half of those I work with, I don’t have a special talent like Mads.”

“You are intelligent.”

“I’m of average intelligence within the organisation.”

“You’re not _in_ the organisation, Anthea. You work outside it, in a special, unofficial project, known about by only a select few. I chose you because you are special. Because you dared to voice your opinion to me. Because Sylvia Ross told me you were among the very best. And because, bluntly, you were damaged goods and I knew you would remain loyal to me for giving you the opportunity.”

Anthea rolled her eyes, downing the rest of her wine and then topping it back up. “You do have a way with words, sometimes.”

Mycroft winced. “I meant it… kindly.”

“I don’t think calling someone ‘damaged goods’ can ever be kind.”

“Jim Braum is damaged goods. Kamik Toor is damaged goods.”

She shot him a look. “You’re not helping.”

Mycroft sighed. “I apologise.”

“Accepted.”

“I’m probably damaged goods, does that help?” Mycroft asked.

Anthea laughed. “Well, you are _now_. If you had been on your best behaviour, you would be looking at Hugh Seagroves’ job, I suspect.”

“I can’t imagine anything worse.”

“Did you never want it?”

“I never truly knew what I wanted. I entered MI5, I worked with the CIA, I worked with MI6… And then I simply could not do it anymore. And I hoped to never return.”

“What happened?” she asked. 

“My lover died. Killed. I say lover, it was less… less emotional than that.”

“Does Greg know?”

“Yes, Greg knows.”

“But you came back.”

“They urged me to consult. And I agreed, because I liked the extra income and it is nice to feel valuable. I felt necessary. But I’m not sure I ever thought I would do this indefinitely. Knowledge is like money, Anthea. Once you begin to accumulate it… it never feels as though it’s enough.”

“I understand that. I recognise that.”

“Could you leave?”

She sighed and stretched out. “Sometimes I wonder,” she admitted. “I don’t want to leave you. I like what we do, and I’m happy to come to work every day. But sometimes it follows you home, doesn’t it? The weight of the knowledge you have. When you walk past a tube station, and think ‘I knew about the plot to blow that up’. And everyone else has no idea. No idea that we just… stopped it from happening. I wish sometimes that I could be that oblivious.”

“Yes.”

“Arnou wants children.”

Mycroft paused. “And do you?”

“I went for coffee with Jim Braum a few weeks ago, and his adopted children joined us a few hours later. They’re sweet. I thought for a moment that perhaps I could do that.”

“But?”

“My father used to say to me ‘always be honest’. ‘Always be honest, even when it hurts to be’. But he kept his biggest secrets from me my entire life. Secrets I only learned about because you told me. And I know why. It’s because he worked for SIS, and he had to be secretive. But just once, I wish he could have just… been honest with me about something important. I wish he had been honest about the fact that we’re fighting a war we can’t win. I wish he could have sat me down and said he was scared. But he never did. We never spoke about anything that actually matters.” She stared down at the table, brow furrowed as it seemed to occur to her how much she had just said. “Sorry, this wine has gone to my head.”

Mycroft studied her for a moment. He’d long since forgotten everything he had learned about Anthea’s father. George Dowler had been an inventor for SIS. And Anthea had joined the secret services thinking she could find out how he had died. To this day, she didn’t know.

Mycroft bit his lip. “Your father,” he said softly. “He. You were right. He was poisoned.”

Anthea blinked. “You… sorry?”

“You always believed your father had been killed, and I want to tell you, you were correct.”

“How did you find out?”

“I’ve always known, since I met you.”

She stared at him, mouth open as she struggled for words. “Nine years. You’ve known this for… nine years and you never said anything?”

“It’s classified. Beyond even your clearance level.”

She swallowed. “He’s my father, Mycroft.”

“He played a pivotal role in the Cold War, and he was poisoned and they covered it up because the war was winding down and they didn’t want to add fuel to the flames. You work with the people who covered it up. I didn’t want you to launch a war against them.”

“Sylvia.”

“Yes. I suspect so, I don’t know for certain.”

Anthea bit her lip, eyes flicking around the room as she looked anywhere but at Mycroft. “You’ve known this for nine years? That day when you showed me my father’s drawings…”

“I knew then. Does it change anything? Knowing the truth?”

“I don’t know,” she snapped, her voice breaking a little. “But you never gave me the opportunity to find out.”

Mycroft glanced at his bedroom door, to where Greg was probably sleeping soundly behind it. “We carry knowledge on our shoulders that sometimes we cannot bear the weight of. But you do bear it. Because you simply don’t have a choice.”

Anthea wiped her eyes. “He’s my father. And he lied to me my whole life. And then Sylvia… and you…”

“You would make a wonderful mother, Anthea. Don’t let someone else’s mistakes be the reason you don’t allow yourself the opportunity.”

She sat up, pulling her jacket tighter around herself. She stared down at the carpet. “You should tell Greg. You really should.”

Mycroft nodded and stood up. “My spare room is just through there,” he told her, gesturing to the door. “Help yourself to anything you need in the bathroom, there should be a spare toothbrush under the sink.”

“Thank you,” she whispered.

“I am truly sorry I kept it from you all these years.”

“You do what you do,” she replied, her voice colder than he remembered ever hearing. “I can’t honestly say anything you do surprises me anymore.”

Mycroft narrowed his eyes a fraction, lips parted to ask what she meant. But he let the question pass, rested his hand on her shoulder for a brief moment, and then slipped into his and Greg’s bedroom.

He spooned up behind Greg, pressing a soft kiss to the back of his neck. He heard Greg hum as he pressed back against him, taking hold of Mycroft’s hand and wrapping his arm over his bare chest.

“Nice drinks?” Greg mumbled into the pillow.

“Yes.”

“S’nice to see you doing that.”

“We were working.”

“Hm, maybe. But I’m glad you have people to drink with.”

“Go back to sleep.”

“You sleep too,” Greg murmured.

“I will,” Mycroft whispered. “I will.”

He lay in silence as Greg fell asleep and he listened to him breathe and snore. Letting his eyes drift close, he finally joined him.

* * *

**April 2013.**

**Location: The Coeur de Lion Offices, Mayfair, London.**

Mycroft did not see Desmond Cook coming. He had no reason to. He had never caused him any particular problems. He served his York constituency well, as far as Mycroft could tell. He also served dutifully but quietly on the Joint Committee on the National Security Strategy.

And on a sunny afternoon in April, he asked to meet with Mycroft.

“I can’t see him,” Mycroft told Anthea while he paused a conference call. “Russia is pointing weapons at Ukraine and visa-versa, and I am needed for the talks.”

“I’ll tell him we can arrange a meeting in a fortnight’s time?”

“Yes,” Mycroft agreed, returning back to his conversation with the British diplomats dealing with the Russia situation. “Apologies,” he said. “Do continue. The Russian President is saying what, precisely?”

“That Ukraine threatened them first.”

Mycroft rubbed his forehead. “Do we know for certain?”

“The Americans do, but they’re not telling us anything because then they would have to admit they’ve been spying on Russia and Ukraine all this time.”

Mycroft rolled his eyes. “That would be far too simple. The Prime Minister is willing to talk to both leaders, but he wants the groundwork on a ceasefire agreement done first. Let’s avoid the legal language and make it abundantly clear what we need the leaders to agree to.”

“Yes, sir,” the diplomat said. “The Defence Minister is working on a strategy now.”

“Good,” Mycroft replied. “I want hourly updates.” He hung up the call and crossed the name off his seemingly-endless list of phone calls to make.

For three days, the work on the Russia and Ukraine situation continued without resolution. Mycroft gave Desmond Cook no more thought at all.

Eventually, exhausted, he decided to work from home. He invited the office’s IT expert to his flat at 4am, and he ensured his encryption was in place for his computer and phone. It was 12 hours after he had sat down that he received an email from Desmond.

_‘Three hours to respond, or I send this to the press’._

Frowning, Mycroft opened the attachment. And there, right there on his screen, were the details for Bond Air. It was a sketchy preliminary report, with nothing to suggest it had ever been carried through. It had been from the very early days, before they had ever done anything, and hinted only of letting an aeroplane blow up so as not to alert the terrorists. Taken alone, it made what had happened appear positively criminal.

With a sigh, Mycroft called Desmond Cook. “You’ve got my attention,” he told him.

“I didn’t do this to get your attention,” Desmond spat back at him. “I did it because the security services, including you, were considering letting a plane explode in mid-air, killing hundreds of people…”

“Mr Cook…”

“Three hours and I’m taking it to the press.”

“And what can I say to discourage you?”

Desmond was silent for a few moments. “You need to resign from your position.”

Mycroft frowned. “Resign?”

“You have too much responsibility. Three hours.”

“This is top secret national security information. If you release this, you will go to jail.”

“I don’t care. You were willing to murder hundreds of people.”

“You’re very much mist-” But he hung up. Mycroft slammed his fist on the table. “Dammit!”

He contacted Anthea and told her what had happened, and they began to track Desmond Cook down. “We’ll cut off his internet connection if that’s what it takes,” Mycroft said. “Have him tailed.”

Half an hour later, Greg barged into his office. For a second, Mycroft couldn’t recall where he had been all day, but then remembered Greg had mentioned something about the Attorney General before he’d left in the morning.

Mycroft flicked his eyes up to meet his fiery expression. “Not good news?” Mycroft risked asking.

“No,” Greg snapped. “And you know why it’s not good news? Because you refused to testify. You didn’t even tell me, Mycroft.”

“That man is trying to punish me.” Mycroft returned his attention back to his screen. “Think nothing of it.”

“Think nothing-think nothing of it?” Greg slammed his hand down onto one of Mycroft’s books. Mycroft didn’t look up, but continued typing. “Mycroft! Look at me.”

“And say what? I have a lot of work to do and you’re unbearable when you’re in this sort of mood. Have a coffee and we’ll discuss it when you’ve calmed down.”

“We’re discussing this now.”

“No, we’re not,” Mycroft snapped, looking up at him. “I have two countries with missiles poised and ready to be fired at each other. I have a Government minister willing to be sent to jail so he can disclose secrets relating to national security. An Attorney General with an ego the size of Russia is not my concern right now.”

Greg sighed and sunk down in the chair on the other side of the desk. “Do you need anything?”

“Paracetamol,” Mycroft said. “And a very strong coffee.”

“On it. Anything else?”

Mycroft shook his head. “No. Thank you.” He rubbed his forehead and printed the latest reports from Russia and Ukraine. He frowned as Greg walked in again, carrying a mug, painkillers and a plate of biscuits.

“I didn’t ask for the biscuits,” Mycroft reminded him.

“I know,” Greg said. “But you started work at 5.30 this morning and I don’t think you’ve eaten in more than 12 hours. Am I wrong?”

Mycroft checked the time on his laptop. “No. You’re right.”

“You probably have a hunger headache. Biscuits are better than nothing until I’ve cooked dinner. Want anything particular?”

“Fish.”

“Alright. I’m still mad at you,” Greg said. “But I’ll wait until you’ve solved your conflicts first.”

Despite himself, Mycroft managed a smile.

“What?” Greg asked.

“I’ve just never met anyone who understood me as well as you do,” Mycroft said. “Thank you.”

Greg smiled back a bit at that. “Just eat the bloody biscuits,” he said, leaving the office and quietly shutting the door behind him.

Mycroft watched the door for a moment, wondering if he could spare a few minutes to explain everything to him. But then his phone rang and he got stuck in fruitless negotiations with Desmond Cook. But he at least managed to convince him to hold the leak for 12 more hours.

Greg brought him dinner, and Mycroft apologised for how his meeting with the Attorney General had gone. He promised himself he would make it up to him.

He worked long into the night, until he had nothing else to give to talks on either side. The Russia-Ukraine situation went unsolved, but neither nation had got trigger happy. And Mycroft was fairly sure he had convinced Desmond Cook not to leak classified information.

The negotiations continued into the next day and evening, and he finally got home around 10pm, exhausted and world-weary. His eyes were heavy and shoulders aching from being sat behind a desk for days on end. Too tired to even take his shoes and tie off, he found Greg on the settee and sat beside him, curling his body against his.

Greg wrapped an arm around his shoulders, kissing his hair. “Long day?” he asked.

“Mmm. Crisis averted. For now.” He closed his eyes, relaxing a little at last.

“So,” Greg started. “So, why won’t you testify?”

“I can’t give away my position in Government. The Attorney General knows this, so he’s testing me. He wants more power for himself, and thinks I’m the one who is able to give it to him.”

“So, what now?” Greg asked. “He’s refused it again.”

Mycroft frowned. “I will think of a way, I promise you.”

“I hope so. Because I really need to do this, Mycroft. I can’t ever move on from all of this unless we clear his name.”

“I know. I know how important it is.”

“Yeah. Sorry. Sorry, I shouldn’t have mentioned it, I know how tired you are.”

Mycroft sat up, reaching up to caress Greg’s cheek. “I told Andrew Regis I intended to destroy him. He isn’t taking it very well.”

Greg huffed a laugh. “What’s he doing?”

“Trying to destroy me. The MP I mentioned, who wanted to leak classified information. I’m fairly sure he was sent by Regis.”

“It’s not like it’s the first person who’s tried to take you down. You always win.”

“I don’t think that’s true.”

“Yeah, it is,” Greg said, leaning forward and pressing a soft kiss to his lips. “The world’s still spinning. And that’s how I know you won.”

“The world has experienced nuclear weapons, and it’s still spinning. That was nothing to do with me.”

Greg laughed and rubbed Mycroft’s shoulder. Mycroft hummed his approval. “It’s good,” he said, allowing himself to focus on Greg’s fingers working into his tired muscles. “I am very sorry,” he murmured into his shirt.

“I know.”

“It matters to me, Greg. I promise you, it matters. There is just a certain way we have to do this.”

“Honestly, Mycroft. It’s okay. Have you eaten?”

“No. I’m not hungry.”

“Can I run you a bath?”

Mycroft smiled and kissed his cheek. “Come to bed with me instead?”

Greg grinned and took his hand again. “We have a lot of making up to do. I feel like I’ve hardly seen you.”

“Then let’s make up for lost time,” Mycroft replied, finally able to smile for the first time that day.

* * *

**May 2013.**

**Location: The Holmes cottage, Gloucestershire.**

He could not avoid it forever. Eventually he had to re-introduce Greg to his parents. His mother prompted him about it every time they spoke on the phone. Eventually he gave in. He had run out of excuses.

They had tea and cake, and his parents gossipped about their friends and their dancing classes and the garden. Mycroft sat with Greg’s arm wrapped around his shoulders, feeling adored and cared for.

“Mycroft, help me clear this away,” his mother said.

Smiling at Greg, Mycroft stood up and collected one of the trays, following her to the kitchen. She nudged the door closed behind them.

“I take it you approve,” Mycroft said, turning the kettle on.

“Of course I do. He’s handsome and charming and you should have brought him round months ago.”

“I know.”

“You’re living together, Mycroft. That’s not nothing.”

“No,” he agreed. “It’s not nothing.”

“He’s the first man you’ve ever brought home.”

“This isn’t…” He frowned, stopping himself. “I realise that.”

“This isn’t what?” she asked. “Home?” She huffed. “Well, I know that much. You hardly ever visit. Some mothers would think you hated them.”

Mycroft sat down at the table, watching as she checked on the casserole.

“What does he know?” she asked after a few minutes. “I realised before you arrived that he must know about Sherlock but…”

“He doesn’t,” Mycroft told her.

“He doesn’t know?”

“No.”

“He is the Greg Lestrade who looked after my boy, isn’t he? Who helped him through all of that drugs business?”

“Yes.”

She frowned at him. “Will you tell him?”

“When the time is right.”

“How is Sherlock?”

“He’s… busy. He’s fine. He’s very capable.”

His mother hummed disapprovingly. “The sooner he’s home… You don’t understand, Mycroft.”

He tilted his head. “What don’t I understand?”

“What it’s like to have a child. And to know that they’re never coming home.”

“He will come home,” Mycroft promised her.

“This family, honestly.” She tutted and poured the water into their mugs. “Does Greg even know about Sherrinford?”

“No. And if you’d not mention it, I’d be grateful.”

She sighed and shook her head. “I’ll never tell you how to live your life, Myc. Goodness knows, I’d drive you away if I ever tried...”

“Then don’t, for goodness sake, finish that sentence.”

She raised her eyebrows. “I wouldn’t dream of it,” she said, and carried the tray back to the living room.

Mycroft sat back at Greg’s side, while Greg talked about himself and his work. Mycroft excused himself to use the bathroom and caught sight of a picture he had not seen on the wall before. It was a grinning picture of Sherlock, looking around four years old. And Mycroft stood beside him, glaring at the photographer.

And somehow, that picture spoke of every reason he hated the cottage. It had always been filled with the ghost of his elder brother, even though he had never stepped over the threshold. And even that photograph told his story.

Because of course, Greg would never even consider what was staring him in the face. If Mycroft and Sherlock were in the picture, then who was behind the camera?

Mycroft knew it had been Sherrinford.

As he rejoined Greg on the settee and took hold of his hand, he caught his mother’s eye. Greg and Mycroft’s father were joking about baby pictures.

“There aren’t many,” Mycroft’s mother said, with a glance in Mycroft’s direction. “I’ll find them for next time.”

Mycroft stared down at his knees. Hidden in drawers and in the loft, there were hundreds of pictures. Smiling pictures, baby pictures, pictures from holidays and lessons and day trips. But a baby picture of Mycroft inevitably had Sherrinford in too.

And as he failed to meet Greg’s eyes, he had a feeling his lies were quickly catching up with him.


	67. The Fall Of Rome

**June 2013.**

**Location: Attorney General’s Office, Victoria Street, London.**

Anthea found the dirt on the Attorney General. She knew the right people to ask, the documents she needed. Mads pulled together the final spreadsheets, until Mycroft had all the concrete evidence he needed to prove the Attorney General’s illegal behaviour. He knew it had been out there all along, but the proof… having the proof in his hands was as good as clutching at gold.

“How are we doing this?” Greg asked as they stood outside the office.

“By being completely honest,” Mycroft replied with a smile. “And with a bit of good old-fashioned bribery.”

Greg knocked on the door, and they waited for the Attorney General to tell them to come in. The man was seated behind his desk, cup of tea almost to his mouth. “You’re not my 6 o’clock meeting,” he said, one hand gripping his desk, the other reaching for his phone.

“Correct,” Mycroft replied, taking a seat opposite him and gesturing for Greg to do the same. He never took his eyes off the Attorney General. “You and I need to have a chat.”

“No, we don’t, Mycroft.”

Mycroft ignored him. “Sherlock Holmes. I want the case reviewed, and I want the process to start in August at the very latest.”

“No,” the Attorney General replied. “It’s a waste of money and resources.”

“I understand you were planning a move to America. A job in the White House and where your wife could take a position at the Washington Post. That would be quite a step up for you.”

The Attorney General laughed. “So?”

“I have contacts in America. I can cement your position for you.”

“You are not bribing me, Mr Holmes.”

“Very well. If you will not be bribed, how do you respond to threats?”

“Not very well.”

“Will that still be the case when I remind you of your off-shore bank accounts in Switzerland?”

A flicker of panic passed over the Attorney General’s features. “What off-shore bank accounts?”

“£1.3million was it? £8.2million in total, if I’m not mistaken. A lot it is your own personal wealth of course. But more than half of it is in undeclared financial contributions to a certain political party.”

“Mycroft, you can’t threaten me.”

“Yes I can,” Mycroft said with a cold smile. “And I am. I have a reporter at The Times on speed-dial. An old university friend of mine, and one who is not particularly fond of you.”

“It’s not illegal,” the Attorney General spluttered.

Mycroft smiled. “Yes it is.”

“This is blackmail!”

“Yes, it is,” Mycroft agreed calmly. “August.”

“I won’t do it.”

Mycroft raised an eyebrow and slid his phone out. “No?” he asked, as he dialled Oliver Cale’s number. It rang just once. “Oliver. Long time, no speak-”

“-Hang on!” the Attorney General cried out. “Hang on!”

“Just a moment, Oliver, my apologies.” Mycroft hung up. “August.”

“It might take longer…”

“August. It’s my final offer.”

The Attorney General hung his head. He held his hands up. “Fine. Fine. But you’ve made an enemy of me, Mycroft Holmes.”

Mycroft rose from his seat. “On the contrary. You’ve made an enemy of me. Detective Chief Inspector Lestrade. We’ll be leaving.”

He shot the Attorney General one final, disdainful look and then led the way out of the room. He pocketed his phone. 

“God,” Greg breathed out. “That was… That was the most arousing thing I’ve ever witnessed.” Mycroft chuckled. “I’m serious,” Greg continued, stepping towards him. He took hold of Mycroft’s hand and lifted it to his neck. 

Mycroft paused for a moment, counting the beats of his pulse. Elevated. He licked his lips. “We need to go home.”

Greg met his eyes. “Yeah. Yeah, we do. Right now.”

“Of course.”

Trying to maintain his composure, Mycroft led the way to the car. He immediately closed the window between the driver’s seat and the back seat. Greg grabbed his tie and tugged him into a kiss. Mycroft let out a muffled sound against his lips, shuffling to get a better angle, and curling his fingers in Greg’s soft hair. Greg groaned in response, swiping his tongue over Mycroft’s bottom lip.

“Seatbelts,” Mycroft reminded him, breathless, before dropping his lips down to Greg’s neck. 

“Your drivers are the safest in the world.”

“I thought you were a defender of the law, Greg Lestrade. You shouldn’t go around breaking it.”

“Yeah, well,” Greg said, tilting his head back to give Mycroft more access to his neck. “You shouldn’t go around blackmailing people.”

Mycroft looked at him. “You’re right.” He kissed him again, hard and brief. “I broke the law.”

Greg’s eyes seemed to darken. “Yeah you did,” he breathed out. “And it was the sexiest fucking thing I’ve ever seen.”

Greg made quick work of unfastening Mycroft’s tie and dropping it onto the floor. Their lips met in a desperate clinch as Greg straddled Mycroft’s lap, Mycroft pulling at his jacket and tangling his fingers in his hair. Greg rolled his hips and Mycroft shuddered in response, desperate for more pressure against his cock. Greg’s lips latched onto Mycroft’s neck, and he dug his fingers into his shoulder.

“Mr Holmes, we’re here,” Malcolm said over the intercom.

Greg burst out laughing and rolled onto the seat to adjust his clothes. “Please tell me that sound system only works one way.”

“I believe so,” Mycroft said, taking a deep breath. “Nonetheless, my staff are very discreet.”

Greg laughed. “Fuck. Come on. I need you.”

Mycroft smoothed down his shirt and got out of the car, doing his best to walk smoothly, as though he wasn’t achingly hard. Greg pushed him into a wall as soon as the front door was closed behind them. They kissed in a hard-fought battle for dominance, until Mycroft surrendered to Greg’s strength, allowing himself to be pinned between his firm body and the wall. He ground his hips against Greg’s, trying anything to get some friction against his cock. 

“Get the lubricant,” Mycroft murmured against Greg’s lips.

“What?”

“I want you to take me here.”

“Oh God.” Greg kissed him again. And then stepped away, his cheeks flushed, lips red and wet. “Stay. Wait.” He flashed Mycroft another dark look, licking his bottom lip as he did. 

Mycroft stayed still, leaning against the wall and adjusting himself in his trousers. He let out a relieved sound as Greg returned and kissed him again, pinning Mycroft’s arms up above his head. Nothing in the world felt as good as being wanted that much. 

“Turn around,” Greg instructed, letting go of his wrists. 

Mycroft did so without hesitation, bracing his arms against the wall. Greg’s fingers made quick work of unfastening his trousers, pulling them down to his ankles, leaving him stood in his shirt and his pants, his cock jutting out almost obscenely. He longed to seek some friction against the wall, but he stayed still.

His eyes closed as Greg’s lips found his ear. “You are so hot, Mycroft,” he groaned out, biting his neck. “All that stuff about threats. God.” Greg pulled Mycroft’s boxers down and his hands stroked over his backside, grabbing one cheek. “You broke the law, Mycroft,” he whispered, his voice husky. “You broke the law in front of a police officer, and I can’t let that go.”

Mycroft moaned, dropping his head back against Greg’s shoulder. “What are you going to do about it?” he gasped. “Sir?”

There was a long pause and then Greg spoke again. “Push your arse out for me, Holmes, that’s the way.”

Mycroft did as instructed, resting his forehead against the wall. He’d lost any inhibitions he’d had many months ago, thanks to the loving attention Greg had paid to his body throughout that time. He knew he was seen, completely seen. And worshipped. 

He shivered as Greg’s tongue pressed against him with one wet lick. He pushed towards Greg’s mouth, his nails digging into his palms as he trembled. He closed his eyes, focusing on the tip of Greg’s tongue circling him, flicking against him, his hands gripping his buttocks. He spread his legs a little wider to give him more access, and was rewarded with two of Greg’s fingers pushing easily inside. 

“You’re perfect,” Greg breathed against the back of his thigh. “I am the luckiest guy in the world.” 

Mycroft tried to protest, but it came to little as Greg moved his fingers, still flicking his tongue out around them. After what felt like minutes of the sweetest kind of torture, Greg withdrew and stood up. 

“Please,” Mycroft begged, not recognising his own trembling voice. “I need you.”

They both let out a moan of surprise as Greg entered him, his arm wrapping around Mycroft’s middle. They stopped for a few seconds to catch their breath before Greg began to thrust deep inside him, his fingers digging into Mycroft’s hip. 

Mycroft bit down on his arm, trying to repress his guttural sounds as Greg slammed into him, whispering sweet nothings against his neck. He shuddered, every nerve alight, his eyes pinched closed. 

It was a relief when Greg’s hand found his cock, his fingers closing around him and stroking him roughly.

“Yes, Mycroft,” Greg whispered against his neck. “Yes.”

Mycroft gasped and then cried out as he came, spilling over Greg’s fingers. Greg thrust hard inside him once more before going still, and letting out a deep moan as he reached his climax. 

Mycroft dropped his head against the wall while Greg seemed to press even closer to him. “God,” Greg whispered, kissing Mycroft’s neck. With a sigh, he stepped back and pulled out, collapsing onto the nearest chair. Mycroft pulled his underwear and trousers up. 

“If you ever want to blackmail someone in front of me again, be prepared for the consequences,” Greg said with a grin. 

Mycroft chuckled. “You are impossible.” He ran a hand through his hair and began to head for the bathroom.

“Yeah, well. I happen to live with the most powerful man in England. What can I do, ‘ey?”

Mycroft turned to him, aghast. “In England, Greg? Give me some credit. Britain at least.”

Greg burst out laughing and threw a cushion at him. Mycroft grinned and ducked before going into the bathroom. He cleaned himself up and leaned against the door, taking a moment to assess what had just happened. 

In two months’ time, Sherlock’s case would be considered by High Court judges. But that didn’t mean they would agree to open the appeal. There was still a lot to do. 

He joined Greg on the settee, lying down and resting his head in his lap. “We have two months,” Mycroft said. 

“We’ve got everything we need,” Greg replied, stroking his hair. “It’s all in the report the Attorney General got.”

“Yes, I understand that. But now we need a lawyer to take charge of the case.”

“Got anyone in mind?”

“I know a few people from university. I’ll spend the next few days vetting them.”

“What else?” Greg asked. 

“We can’t afford any gaps. The Attorney General has given his approval, but now we need to convince the judges the evidence given at the inquests was wrong.” 

“Then we keep working.” 

Mycroft smiled up at him, taking hold of his hand and toying with his fingers. “I’ll ring Oliver in a while. Tell him about the case. Then the Attorney General can’t back out, not if the case is public knowledge.”

* * *

Two days later, Mycroft managed to make contact with Sherlock. He had returned to Hamburg, and his voice seemed bright. Still, Mycroft was worried it was all a well-developed smokescreen.  

“We’ve got a date for your case,” Mycroft told him, gripping the phone. “August 16.”

“How long do you think it will take?” Sherlock asked. 

“A month, possibly more. It depends on how much information they need.”

“Trepoff is in court. On trial for his wife’s murder.”

“Yes, I saw on the news.”

“I’m a juror.”

Mycroft frowned. “How did you wrangle that?”

“It doesn’t matter how, it just matters that I did.”

“Did he kill his wife?”

“He organised a bomb, I think that’s enough.”

Mycroft rolled his eyes. “Fine.”

“But he did also kill his wife.”

“Then you’ll ensure he gets sent to prison?”

“That’s what I’m here for. Oh. I’m going to Amsterdam in July. One of our targets is hiding there. I need Anthea.”

Mycroft frowned. “Why Anthea specifically?”

“Because it’ll annoy you.”

Mycroft let out an exasperated breath. “I have plenty of suitable agents.”

“No. She’ll do.”

“Fine. Don’t get her killed, Sherlock.”

“Laters,” Sherlock said instead, hanging up the phone. 

* * *

**July 2013.**

**Location: Crusader House, Pall Mall, London.**

It took a surprising amount of paperwork to build a proper, watertight legal case, Mycroft realised. In a superficial sense, he had always known that. But after sitting down with his lawyer, he only then began to appreciate just how much they needed. The solicitor had handed them a list of gaps in their evidence, and it proved they were far less prepared than either of them had realised.

“This is largely police work,” Mycroft pointed out as he sat at his desk with Greg stood behind him. “Background work on Richard Brook’s identity. The fingerprints from the crime scene. The phone messages between Brook and Sherlock. You’re a Detective Inspector now. You can gather everything you need.”

“Yeah.” Greg took a deep breath and frowned. “I’ve been thinking.”

Mycroft looked up at him. “About?”

“I don’t think I should do all that police work.” 

“Greg. There is no officer as thorough as you. No one I trust as much.”

Greg pulled a face, swaying his head a little as though trying to find the right words. “Yeah, I know. But I shouldn’t do it. Conflict of interests. And I think, deep down, you know I shouldn’t do it too.”

“Then who do you suggest?”

“Sally Donovan.”

Mycroft turned back to his desk. “No.”

“You like Sally.”

“Yes, yes, I do. I find her… surprisingly charming and witty. And I admire her taste in men.”

Greg laughed. “You think Sam’s good looking.”

“He’s a… He has certain attributes that are aesthetically pleasing, yes,” Mycroft conceded. “But, excluding all of that… Sally’s history with Sherlock is difficult, and that’s putting it lightly.”

“Yep. I know. But I don’t think there’s anyone better.” Greg sat on the edge of Mycroft’s desk. “Look, there’s Dimmock, who is alright, don’t get me wrong. But he doesn’t really care that much. He’ll do a good job, but he wouldn’t do a _great_ job, because he doesn’t put his heart and soul into it. Then Gregson has a history with Sherlock too, and he wouldn’t take it, because he got burned by the hearing into mine and Sal’s jobs. Carter’s fine. He’s a good cop. He’s thorough and he respects me enough to make sure he gives it everything. But there’s a reason Sally’s been fast-tracked through the Met. And it’s because she is brilliant.”

“You’re biased. You trained her.”

“Then surely that makes her best suited to this?”

“No, it means you see her attributes, and not her failings.”

Greg snorted. “I know what Sally’s weaknesses are, trust me.”

“I do trust you. That’s why you have to do this.”

“I can’t, Mycroft. Do you know how it looks? What if someone finds the transcripts from my job hearing and they make connections between me and Sherlock? What if the press do? We want this to be clean, properly clean.”

“It isn’t clean if Sally touches it. She despised my brother.”

“You told her you forgave her for all that.”

“And I do. But enough to leave a case this important in her hands? I’m not convinced.” 

“She’s thorough,” Greg told him. “She’s good at her job. And I think she has enough guilt that she’ll be willing to take it.”

“Then she is biased.”

Greg huffed a laugh. “Of course she’s biased. Everyone is the entire force is biased. But no one else is as good as her, and no one else will dedicate as much time to it as her. And you know what? If we ask her to do it, then she will. Because I’m her friend, and she likes you.”

“I don’t feel comfortable. This is Sherlock, Greg.”

“Yeah. It’s Sherlock. So it matters more than any other case or any work either of us have ever done. So we’ve got to do this right. And if I take charge of the investigation, then we’re not doing it right. Let Sally find the evidence, and let Sally present it.”

“How is she in court?” Mycroft asked. 

“She’s good. She answers the questions she’s asked, and she gets to the point.”

“She’s convincing?”

“She’s been trained to do this, Mycroft. It’s her job. She’s been to court loads of times.”

“It makes me nervous. You and I have been working on this… I can’t just let it go.”

“You have to. It’s not letting it go completely, but it’s letting it go enough.” Greg stood up and smoothed his hands over Mycroft’s shoulders. “Please trust me.”

“I do.”

“Then trust her to do this and do this as well as I would. Please, Mycroft. Believe me when I say that I know what I’m talking about.”

Mycroft sighed, reaching up to take hold of Greg’s hands. “I need… oversight. I need to know what she’s doing.”

“Then you can talk to the lawyer about that. He’ll keep you informed. But you can’t get in the way of the investigation or you just contradict the entire point.”

“I don’t deal with being out of control, Greg. I don’t appreciate being kept out of the loop.”

“Mycroft. I’m not talking about taking away your control or keeping you out of the loop. I’m just saying we get someone impartial on this. It’s the right thing to do.”

Mycroft turned to look at him. “This is our only opportunity. You realise that, don’t you? If the judge dismisses the evidence then… then that’s it. Sherlock’s Wikipedia page describes him as a murderer and fraud for the rest of his life. That is the only legacy he will leave. Forget his achievements, the work he did for you, because no one will remember any of it.” 

Greg threw his arms up and wandered to the other side of Mycroft’s office. “For God’s sake, Mycroft. Of course I bloody know all of that. Why do you think I’ve been working on this for 18 sodding months? What, you think I don’t care about Sherlock as much as you do, is that it? Look, I didn’t know him all his life. I’m not his flesh and blood brother. His death can’t possibly have as big an impact on me as it does on you. But I loved him, just the same. So don’t sit there and dismiss me just because I didn’t know him when he was three, or was there when he said his first word, or when he had his first overdose. I knew him enough.”

Mycroft bowed his head, staring down at his paperwork. “I didn’t mean to… I didn’t mean to imply you didn’t care. I only meant...”

“I know what you meant. You meant that we can’t fuck this up. I get it. I do. But I’m right on this. I know I am, and I think deep down, you think I’m right too.”

“You are right,” Mycroft admitted, his voice quiet as he collected the documents together and sealed them back up in the folder. He held it out to Greg. “Take it to Sally.”

Greg grabbed it, as though afraid Mycroft would change his mind a second later. “She’ll do this right. You know she will.” 

“For both our sakes,” Mycroft said, “I hope she does.” 

* * *

**August 2013.**

**Location: St James’ Park, Westminster, London.**

Harry Pridmore from Buckingham Palace met with Mycroft in St James’ Park during a hot, sunny afternoon. They sat on a bench, Harry providing them each with a Starbucks coffee.

“I had a tip-off from a journalist friend of mine,” Mycroft said, looking around to see if anyone was close enough to overhear them. “He’s working on a story about phone hacking at Charles Augustus Magnussen’s newspapers. The royal family hasn’t been mentioned, as far as I’m aware, but I would raise your suspicions of phone hacking to the police as soon as possible. An investigation will be underway by the end of the week. I will also be urging the Prime Minister to launch a parliamentary investigation.”

“Are you sure?”

“As sure as I can be. My source has a good track record as an investigatory journalist and he has spent a long time working on this.”

Harry sat back in his seat. “I suppose we all need to be careful then,” he said. “Have you considered that you could have been a victim?”

“Yes. I have looked into it, as much as I can.”

Harry hummed. “Out of interest. What on earth has happened to Andrew Regis? I overheard someone talking about him when I left the palace a few minutes ago.”

Mycroft just about managed to suppress his smile. “He and the Attorney General have been making illegal financial contributions to political parties and fiddling their expenses. WikiLeaks published the information last night.”

“Now we have phone hacking _and_ WikiLeaks to worry about?”

“No, I wouldn’t worry about WikiLeaks. I suspect Mr Regis will be forced to resign by the close of play today.” Mycroft checked his watch. “I am needed at Downing Street, actually. Thank you for the coffee.” 

With a brief smile, he rose from the bench and strolled through the park. Small victories, he thought. It was proving to be a good day.

* * *

Mycroft was forced to stay at the office while Anthea went to the High Court for the opening of Sherlock and Richard Brook’s cases.

Anthea had returned from Amsterdam content that Sherlock was coping well with his tasks, and she noted that he seemed to be taking a lot of optimism from the beginning of the case. 

Buoyed by the news, Mycroft felt settled, even while he waited for information from court. With an enemy in Regis firmly dispatched and Lady Smallwood taking up his position, he finally had a breakthrough in his political dealings. While Lady Smallwood’s husband had been caught up in a number of scandals, none public knowledge, she was competent and Mycroft’s ally to boot. 

He found Greg at home, lying fast asleep on the bed on his stomach. Mycroft smiled at him and took off his shoes, jacket and tie, moving to sit beside him. He smoothed his hand over his shoulderblades, feeling the tightness in his muscles. In his sleep, Greg let out a soft noise and wriggled against the sheets. 

Emboldened, Mycroft straddled his hips, pressing his fingertips into his tense muscles, a smile playing on his lips as Greg groaned in his sleep. Greg’s eyes fluttered open. 

“How did it go?” Mycroft asked.

Greg shrugged, sighing as Mycroft continued to rub his back. “Just like you told me it would. There’s a lot of evidence to go through, it’s probably going to take months.”

“We knew that would be the case.”

“I know,” Greg said. “It’s just really hard to hear. Sitting there and listening to someone you cared about be pulled apart… and the press are really sceptical, they think the whole thing’s a joke.”

“That will change.” 

“Yeah. It’s just. It’s like sitting through my job hearing all over again. I mean, that was about six weeks of absolute hell and it’s just digging it all up again. I’ve been in court hundreds of times. But it feels like Sherlock’s on trial. It feels a bit like this is my career on trial again.”

“How many days is it expected to last this week?”

“Just today and tomorrow. Then it’s on hold for three weeks while he deals with some other cases and then it’s back on until it’s over. It gives Donovan more time to do her thing.”

“And what, exactly, will her thing be?” Mycroft asked.

“I dunno.”

“It makes me very uncomfortable, Greg.”

“I trust her, Mycroft.”

Mycroft wrinkled his nose and took a seat beside him on the bed. Greg looked up at him, though his eyes lacked their usual sparkle. 

“You doubt Sherlock,” Mycroft murmured. “Sometimes.”

Greg pulled himself up to a sitting position. “Hardly at all. There was always that doubt in my head that he was capable of shooting someone dead. This isn’t anything new.”

“I realise that.”

“I mean, you are capable too, right? You’ve killed people. You’ve had people killed. Hell, you’ve had a bloke killed right in front of me before. I used to think deep down you cared about it. But I’ve heard you mention it a few times now, and you don’t, do you? That stuff with the Attorney General. You don’t care that you blackmailed him.”

“He is a manipulator and is committing fraud. I have no sympathy for him and feel no remorse in being responsible for his downfall.”

Greg opened his mouth and frowned. He stayed silent. 

“It bothers you,” Mycroft said. “It bothers you that I don’t feel guilty.”

“Bastard murderer or not, I don’t think it’s right to kill someone.”

“I have had people transported abroad to countries which condone torture for the security of the United Kingdom. Yes, I have killed a man to save my life and I have killed a man because he deserved it. I had a man killed in front of you because he threatened your life and mine. I have lied to the Prime Minister. I am an unelected official who has made decisions without his say-so. I have lied to you. I have lied to Anthea. I have made people I care about carry unspeakable burdens and secrets. And yet none of this is news to you. You knew this, even if you would not admit it.”

Mycroft turned to look at him. “You are a better man than I am and you always have been,” he continued. “You are generous and believe in good things. You see the very best in people. You saw the very best in Sherlock, even when to many eyes, there was none to see. You make me a better person for knowing you.”

Greg sighed and glanced at him. “Greater good.”

“Quite. Everyone has a moral code they must operate within.”

“But do you never feel guilty?” Greg asked. “About any of that stuff you listed?”

“There are…” Mycroft frowned. He looked down at his hands in his lap, felt one tremble, just a little. Felt, for the first time in months, just how much power he had wielded on occasion. And for just a second, he felt the weight of the lives he had taken. “There are aspects that haunt me every waking moment.”

Greg took his hand. “It scares me sometimes. That you have so much power over people. That you can walk into a party and spend it speaking to the Prime Minister and make him think every decision was his. If I voted for him… it doesn’t mean anything.”

“It means more than a vote in North Korea does.”

Greg began to laugh. “You have a warped view on the world,” he said.

Mycroft managed a smile. “So do you.”

Greg kissed his shoulder. “Remind me why I put up with you.”

“Because I have extraordinary taste in whiskey.”

“Ah yeah,” Greg said. “Yeah, that does help.”

“Not to mention, how comfortable this mattress is.”

“You’re right. Back massages don’t hurt either.” Greg grinned at him before kissing him on the lips. “I love you, you mad, ridiculous bastard.”

Mycroft smiled as he returned the kiss. “I return those sentiments.”

Greg laughed and curled up to him. “Yeah, I know you do. Believe me, I know.”

Mycroft let out a content sigh, wrapping an arm around his shoulders. He kissed the top of his head and then reached for his phone to check his messages. 

Eventually he got up to make dinner. He stirred the pasta, attention only half-focused on the news on the radio. They were discussing Lady Smallwood’s appointment, and then an explosion in Iraq and then there was a story about a man charged with four murders after an IRA bombing in the 1980s. “The arrest followed a massive investigation in which…”

Frowning, Mycroft slammed his hand down onto the radio’s off switch. He searched in the fridge for the cheese. And Greg’s words from earlier came to mind. ‘I don’t think it’s right to kill someone’. He swallowed. Stood staring into the fridge, feet glued to the spot.

_But I didn’t kill him_ , he told himself. _I suggested someone else killed him, but I didn’t kill him myself. He would have turned 50 tomorrow. Sherrinford would have been 50 years old, except I killed him._

No. “I didn’t kill him.”

“What?” Greg asked, stepping into the kitchen. 

Mycroft froze. “I… forgot to ask the housekeeper to buy kitchen roll.”

“You’re looking in the wrong place for kitchen roll, love. Won’t find that in the fridge.”

Mycroft forced a smile. “Yes. I know.” He retrieved the cheese. “Could you finish this for me, I need the bathroom.”

“Sure.”

Mycroft brushed past him and shut himself in the en-suite. He took a deep breath. _Stop it_ , he urged himself. _Just stop this madness now_. 

He ate dinner with Greg and did his best to concentrate on the film they were watching. But in the end, he went to bed early. He woke up briefly when Greg joined him a while later, and after, he dreamt. 

 

_ The rain was lashing down onto the pavement. It was still daytime, but the dark clouds overhead meant it felt far later. Mycroft stepped out onto the runway, flanked either side by two of his best men. Jim Braum carried a gun. So did Bill Tomlinson.  _

_ Kneeling on the ground, his arms behind his back, was Sherrinford, some deranged smile on his face. He looked younger. At 21 years old, he had broad shoulders and dishevelled hair. Instead of his usual dark eyes, they were bright and blue. Sherlock’s eyes.  _

_ “You wouldn’t kill me,” Sherrinford said, though doubt crept into his voice. “Mummy would be so angry.” _

_ “I don’t believe she would be,” Mycroft replied.  _

_ “You're going to have your lackey shoot me dead? You haven't got the nerve. Sherlock's got more guts than you ever have. You fucked us both up, Mycroft. Thought you were the perfect older brother for him, didn't you? But look at us. Sherlock's a junkie and I'm... well.” _

_ “A mass murderer,” Mycroft finished for him.  _

_ Sherrinford grinned. “You won’t have me killed. You don’t want to be like me. You think you’re so much better than everyone else. You haven’t got the guts to kill me.”  _

_ "You never learn, do you, brother?" Mycroft asked. "You spend so much time trying to prove yourself that you never stop to consider what Sherlock and I can do. What we are capable of." _

_ "You're only capable of being a rubbish big brother. He's nearly killed himself once." _

_ "Do not test me."  _

_ "Do it then. Have me killed."  _

_ "You deserve it."  _

_ "And what happens? You have me killed here. And then you'll watch as Sherlock kills himself with drugs, on your watch. You are pathetic. Weak. Stupid." _

_ Mycroft swallowed and lifted his hands. He peeled his gloves off, folding them and tucking them into his pockets. The air was cold, but he didn't shiver. He held his right hand out. "Give me the gun," he said. Jim didn’t hesitate. Mycroft took the weapon from him.  _

_ "See?" his brother said. "I always knew you wouldn't actually be able to go through with it."  _

_ Mycroft raised the gun. He pointed the barrel at his brother's head. His brother frowned for a moment. "Really?" He snorted with laughter. "You wouldn't d-" BANG.  _

 

Mycroft jolted awake. Greg snored beside him. He shivered and covered his face with his hands, and found his fingertips came away wet. He grabbed the tissues from the side and patted down his cheeks. He lay staring up at the ceiling. His hands shook. 

From the corner of his eye, he saw the clock turn to midnight. August 17. Sherrinford’s birthday. It meant a danger night for Sherlock, who was miles away, goodness knows where, not keeping in contact as usual. 

After lying awake for an hour, Mycroft fell back to sleep. He was jolted awake a while later by Greg’s nightmares, ones which left him shouting in his sleep. When Greg finally woke up, Mycroft held him in his arms and tried to soothe him. 

For the rest of the week, Mycroft was already awake when Greg struggled through his nightmares. Greg slept fitfully, and Mycroft hardly slept at all. 

* * *

**September 2013.**

**Location: The Colosseum, Rome, Italy.**

After what proved to be a difficult few weeks in which Mycroft struggled in silence, he arranged for himself and Greg to go away. They chose Italy, on Anthea’s suggestion.

They stood in the centre of the Colosseum on their first morning there. Mycroft stared up at its walls, marvelling at how once, 50,000 jeering, cheering, booing people would have stood there, bloodthirsty and hungry for murder.  

He could picture the Emperor sitting in the place of honour, observing his subjects. He would have been proud about the strength they displayed. Their desire for justice to be done, for hard-fought battles, heroes and villains. He would have seen blood spilled and guts on the ground, and he would have thought it was good. It was a microcosm for the Roman Empire itself. Full of death and war and glories. 

“Mycroft!” Greg called to him. With a tight smile, Mycroft joined him, rolling his eyes as Greg pulled his phone out. “You promised me,” Greg reminded him. “One picture of us a day.”

“Yes, yes,” Mycroft agreed, watching Greg hand his phone to a fellow tourist so they could take a picture of them both. He didn’t like seeing himself in pictures. He thought they emphasised his receding hairline and long nose, both of his least-favourite features. And though he tried to smile, it always seemed false, even when he was stood beside Greg and couldn't have been happier. In contrast, Greg was practically model-like in photographs. And Mycroft thought Greg should have taken centre-stage in all of their pictures. 

But Greg insisted he wanted Mycroft posing beside him, so they had reached a compromise while Mycroft had been only half-awake on the aeroplane. 

Mycroft didn’t even look at the offending photograph. He waited while Greg took more pictures, as though capturing the moment with his eyes wouldn’t be memory enough. Whether he would ever look at the majority of the pictures more than once or twice was doubtful, but he snapped away, regardless. 

“Kind of unbelievable, isn’t it?” Greg remarked, tucking his phone away. “That there was this massive empire and then… it was gone.”

“It was unsustainable.”

“Still,” Greg said. “They had everything, didn’t they?”

“The Emperors?” Mycroft shrugged. “Yes, I suppose. They had power, wealth. But many were assassinated. Some executed. It wasn’t glorious. You can have all the power in the world you want, Greg, but…” Trailing off, Mycroft looked back up again at the walls. 

“But what?”

“It ends eventually. You can only hope it ends on your terms.” He frowned and turned to Greg. “Did you get everything you wanted from here?”

“Yeah. You alright?”

Mycroft nodded and took his phone from him. “Let me get a photograph of you. Over there, by that wall.”

Greg grinned at him and took a few steps backwards. He smiled for the camera, waiting while Mycroft took a landscape and portrait picture of him, and then a close-up. He checked the pictures, gazing at the image. He was beautiful, Mycroft thought. Everything about him was. He handed the phone back, but not before pressing a light and surreptitious kiss to his cheek. 

They left the Colosseum as it was reaching the hottest part of the day. Greg urged Mycroft to share a pizza with him for lunch, promising it would be better than the Pizza Express meal they’d had all those years ago. 

They sat in the shade, watching the world go by as Greg read the guidebook and recited facts about Rome. 

They visited the Sistine Chapel next. “We’re spending a lot of time looking up,” Mycroft remarked, rubbing the back of his neck as he stared up at Michelangelo’s extraordinary ceiling. 

“We can use that huge bath at the hotel after dinner,” Greg told him, his voice quiet. “I’ll give you a back rub. Maybe I’ll spend hours making you feel good.” Greg paused. “Probably shouldn’t talk about all the things I’m going to do to you while we’re standing in a church in the Vatican City.”

Mycroft smiled. “Michelangelo might have liked it if you did. I remember when I was at school. I knew I was gay, I felt as though I must have been the only one. We had to do every lesson at school, and that included art, which I was dreadful at. As part of that, we did art history, and I decided to focus on the Renaissance painters. And, I’ll never forget sitting on my floor in my dorm room reading about Michelangelo.”

“What did it say?”

“He sent sonnets - poems - to… the name escapes me, but he was a young nobleman. Very young, less than half Michelangelo’s age. And the nobleman replied that he returned his love. I felt a little less alone that day. After all, Michelangelo did great things.” He returned his attention to the ceiling. 

They continued their slow walk around before getting a taxi back to their hotel to freshen up. Greg went for a swim while Mycroft showered and got changed for dinner. 

Mycroft took him to La Pergola, a three star Michelin restaurant, where he had to tell Greg not too look at the prices and to select what he wanted. Its wine cellar was famous for containing drinks from 1888 to the present day, and Mycroft longed to creep downstairs and take a look at it. 

They wore ties for the occasion, and Mycroft knew he was the luckiest person on earth for being able to show Greg off. In the few hours they had been outside, he had already caught the sun a little, his skin marginally darker than usual. He looked more relaxed than he had been since they had reunited 18 months ago, with work stresses firmly cast to one side. 

They sat by the window overlooking the city and ate amberjack fish to start, followed by pigeon. 

Greg smiled at him, giving Mycroft’s knee a surreptitious squeeze. “Just how rich are you?” he asked, grinning.

“We can afford this. I like treating you. Let me do that without you worrying about my wallet.”

“I am letting you. I’m definitely letting you.” Greg patted his stomach. “I reckon I could manage a dessert too.”

“A whiskey to finish?”

“Yes please.” 

The waiter brought the dessert trolley over, and Mycroft watched in amusement while Greg took at least three minutes to decide what he wanted. Mycroft opted for cheese and biscuits, though they ended up taking from one another’s plates. 

They went for a walk afterwards, the streets far quieter than they had been earlier that day. They sat on a bench, Greg’s arm slung only Mycroft’s shoulders as they checked the map and made plans for the next day. 

Greg ran the bath when they returned to the hotel, while Mycroft poured them each a glass of Prosecco. 

They got into the bath together, Mycroft resting between Greg’s legs, leaning back against his chest. 

“I had a perfect day,” Greg told him, kissing his shoulder. “I always love spending time with you but… just getting away from everything has been so good.”

“It has.”

Greg put his glass down on the side and checked the hotel’s body washes, opening them and sniffing, offering them to Mycroft to have a smell too. Mycroft chose one with a coconut smell, closing his eyes as Greg began to rub it into his chest. 

“I told you I was gonna do this,” Greg whispered close to his ear, his palms moving in lazy circles over Mycroft’s skin. “I’m going to touch every inch of you.”

Mycroft breathed out a silent ‘oh’, his lips parting further as Greg’s thumb brushed over his nipple. His hands moved up, up over Mycroft’s arms and then to his shoulders, easing away the tension in his muscles. 

“I want you to be really good and just sit and enjoy this, okay?” Greg murmured against the back of his neck. “Just let me do this for you.”

“I don’t… I’m not sure I’m in a position to argue.”

“Shh. No arguing with me. Just sit right there.”

Mycroft hummed and dropped his head forward as Greg caressed his neck and his upper back, hands gliding over his damp skin. 

“When I was at school,” Mycroft murmured. “There was a boy I used to watch on the running track.”

Greg chuckled, his breath tickling Mycroft’s neck. “Oh yeah?”

“He was a six-former. And I was 14, and he was the object of my desires for at least a year.”

“Only a year?”

“I was a fickle teenager.”

Greg laughed, his hands moving down below the water to Mycroft’s lower back. “What happened?”

“Nothing, obviously. I was 14 and he was probably straight. I didn’t even know his name.”

“What did he look like?”

“Tall, with dark hair. And he wore the shortest shorts.”

“I had dark hair.”

Mycroft smiled to himself. “I know. You would almost certainly have caught my eye.”

“Would you have written me poems?”

Mycroft laughed. “Hardly. I can’t write poetry for toffee.”

“Oh, Greg Lestrade, you have a fine arse… Your eyes are brown and…” 

“Could you take me to town?” Mycroft finished. 

Greg burst out laughing, his hands moving back round to Mycroft’s chest. “I do have a fine arse, though.”

“Yes, Greg.”

“You do too.”

“I am so glad we’ve finally settled that matter.” 

“I might need to double check later. I mean, it’s only been 24 hours but I’ve definitely forgotten exactly what it feels like in my hands.”

“How dare you wait 24 hours for that.”

Greg kissed his neck, one hand dropping down to Mycroft’s stomach. “Yeah, I know. It’s almost impossible to keep my hands off you.” His hand brushed against Mycroft’s hard cock and then cupped his balls. Mycroft dropped his head back onto his shoulder, biting down on his bottom lip. “Do you want to get out now?”

“Yes,” Mycroft breathed out, already gripping onto the side of the bath and standing up. Greg’s hands stroked over his backside and down his legs. 

“Okay. Out you get, now I’ve touched almost every inch of you.”

Mycroft smiled at him over his shoulder and wrapped a towel around himself. He held one out to Greg, eyes flicking over his solid chest and cock half-hard between his legs. Mycroft led the way to the bedroom, discarding the towel and lying down on his back. Greg stood in the doorway, lips parted, eyes dark. He made his way over to the bed, dropping his towel on the way and straddling Mycroft’s hips. Not taking his eyes from Mycroft’s, he reached into the drawer and found the lubricant. 

“You want me to ride you?” Greg asked.

“Yes,” Mycroft whispered, already coating his fingers. Greg leaned forward, hands braced either side of Mycroft’s head while Mycroft reached around him. Greg met him in a messy kiss while Mycroft eased a finger inside him. They both laughed, eyes meeting. 

“This angle actually isn’t the best for kissing,” Greg said, grinning.

“No, it’s not.” 

Greg smiled and kissed Mycroft’s neck while Mycroft continued to move his finger, eventually adding a second. Greg shuddered and sat up, bracing one hand on Mycroft’s chest and circling a nipple with his finger. Mycroft stared up at him with a look of wonder. “How did I make you mine?” Mycroft asked him, incredulous.

A slow grin spread over Greg’s face. “You’re drunk.”

“So are you.”

“Yeah, I’m drunk too.” Greg kissed his forehead and then his nose. “You were just you, Mycroft. Always just you.” He leaned down, pressing a tender kiss to Mycroft’s lips. “Swap over?”

“Yes.” Mycroft carefully withdrew his fingers and Greg rolled onto his back, legs parted so Mycroft could kneel between them. 

Mycroft kissed him, lightly at first then more deeply, Greg’s legs wrapping around his waist. Greg’s fingers brushed through his hair. Their eyes remained fixed together. “Please,” Greg whispered.

Mycroft swallowed and lined up his cock, trembling as he pushed in that first inch, heart racing. He wanted to take it slow, wanted to feel Greg’s presence in every nerve in his body. 

“I have loved you,” he breathed out as he pushed a little deeper, swallowing, the sudden emotion close to overwhelming. “I have loved you for seven years.”

Greg cupped his face in his hands, thumbs rubbing against his cheekbones. “I love you too.” 

Mycroft met his eyes. He saw it in them, that beautiful, untempered love and adoration. Love coming from the sweetest, most gracious, generous man he’d ever known. His chest tightened. He dropped his head, his vision swimming, blurred. He couldn’t breathe. His cock slipped from Greg’s body, and for a moment, he didn’t move. 

Somewhere, distantly, he could hear Greg repeating his name, at first confused then concerned then fretful. But his chest still felt tight. He forced a deep breath through his nose. Just breathe, he tried to tell himself, but his thoughts felt jumbled up.

He swallowed and scrambled to a sitting position, moving to the edge of the bed so he couldn’t see Greg’s face. He dropped his head into his hands and he wanted to cry or yell or scream or do something, but there was nothing there. He felt a darkness in himself, a hole where his heart should have been. 

His chest hurt. 

He felt movement on the bed, heard footsteps as Greg retreated from the room. Of course he would leave, it was only right, if Mycroft could feel his wrongs as they were eating him from the inside out, then surely Greg could see them too.

But Greg knelt in front of him holding a glass of water and reaching up to touch Mycroft’s hand. “Here, drink this. It might help.”

Mycroft reached for it, but his hand shook. He stared at his hand, as though it was no longer under his control. 

“Okay,” Greg whispered, traces of fear lingering in his voice. “Let me.” He held the glass up to Mycroft’s lips and he managed to swallow some. “More?”

Mycroft managed to shake his head, staring down at his knees. He clasped his hands in his lap, felt goosebumps prickle over his arms. His hair was still damp and clinging to his head. Greg remained knelt by his feet, stroking Mycroft’s hands and his arms and checking his temperature. 

“Can you lie down for me?” Greg asked. 

Mycroft bit his bottom lip and shuffled back over the bed, lying down on his side, cheek on the pillow, eyes squeezed tightly shut. Greg sat beside him and stroked his hair. “Do you need a doctor?” Greg asked.

“No,” Mycroft managed to say. 

“Okay. Is this… the booze? Or is something else wrong?”

“I don’t… I can’t…” His voice shook. 

Greg gripped his hand. “I’m just going to sit right here. And then if you want the water or a blanket or anything, then you tell me. Or point. Or something. Anything. Whatever you need.”

“Being. Being so silly.” He rubbed his forehead. “The lights…”

“Sure.” Greg dimmed them, until there was the palest of light around the room. He took Mycroft’s hand. “Okay, I’m gonna level with you. I’m really worried and I don’t really know what you need me to do. So, you don’t have to talk. But I’m going to make a few suggestions. And if you think ‘no’ then don’t do anything. But if you think ‘yes’ then squeeze my hand. Does that work?”

Mycroft paused for a moment. And then squeezed his hand. From beside him, Greg let out a sigh of relief. “Do you want more water?” Mycroft stayed still. “Are you cold? Too hot? Do you want to talk? Hug?” Mycroft frowned, and then squeezed his hand. “Okay. I can do that.”

Greg let go of him and walked around the bed, lying down on his back. Mycroft rolled onto his side and shuffled up to him. Not too close, just enough to feel his warmth and for Greg’s arm to press against his chest. He closed his eyes. Greg wrapped one arm around his shoulders, but kept his hold loose. 

Mycroft swallowed. “I’m sorry,” he said, though his throat felt tight, and the words seemed impossibly hard to say. 

“Don’t be.” Greg reached down and pulled a blanket over them. “Here. Close your eyes, and try to sleep.” Mycroft reached out and and gripped his hand. Greg squeezed it. “Er. Hey, here’s a fact I didn’t tell you earlier,” Greg said. “Cats are protected in Rome. Stray cats are allowed to live wherever they were born, and no one can kill them. So… it’s really good for the cats.”

Mycroft felt the vice in his chest begin to subside. “Keep talking.”

“Okay. I reckon we should get a cat one day. Maybe a really big fluffy thing.”

“They moult.”

Greg hummed. “Yeah, that’s true. We don’t want a cat with loads of hair. But Mrs Lunden is a great cleaner. She can sweep it all up and we’ll never notice. Except it’d get hair all over the bed, and I’d definitely notice that. Alright. So a bald cat. We’ll get a bald cat.”

“I… no.”

“Final answer?”

“Final answer.”

“Damn, Mycroft. I was just thinking what a great birthday present that would be. A little bald cat to sit on your lap when you’re in meetings. So… in-between cat. One that doesn’t moult. It can’t be a white cat or your suit will be covered in little cat hairs.” 

Mycroft hummed his agreement. He felt himself beginning to drift off.

“Perhaps we’ll have to get two cats,” Greg continued, his voice softening. “Because cats seem to really like you and they don’t like me and… well, I don’t want to be replaced by a cat. So, there will be one for you and one for me. And we’ll name them something Roman… Julius is a bit of a mouthful though… Caesar would be a nice cat name. And there’s always…” 

* * *

Mycroft woke as the sun rose, still lying in Greg’s arms. He looked around the room, blinking as he tried to work out why they were sleeping on top of the covers rather than under them. The memories crept back in. He groaned and rubbed his eyes.

“Hey, sleepyhead,” Greg mumbled, pulling him back into his embrace. “Come back here.” 

Mycroft smiled and rested his head on his chest. “I’m sorry about last night.”

“Nope. No, you’re not apologising for anything. It’s not your fault. Whatever it was, it’s fine, and you can tell me if you want, or don’t. I don’t mind. All that matters is you’re feeling better.”

“I am.”

“Good then. Breakfast in bed?”

“Please.” 

Greg grabbed the menu from the side and ordered for them both. Afterwards, they went for a walk around the city, popping into attractions as they came across them. The pattern continued the next day, and Mycroft began to forget what had even happened. 

And after a few packed days, they travelled to the Amalfi Coast for sun and sea and relaxation. They had booked an apartment with a sea view and swimming pool, and Mycroft sat reading a book while Greg got more and more tanned, swimming in the pool and then lounging in his swim shorts beside him. 

When it got too hot, they made love in the shower and ate salads and cheese and biscuits. 

On the second morning, they went for a wander through some of the busy market streets, buying food for dinner that evening. Greg popped into a shop to buy some postcards and suncream while Mycroft hovered outside, watching the locals go about their business. 

And then he saw him. He saw Sherrinford, plain as day. Tall, broad shoulders, his hair dark and similar to Mycroft’s. For the briefest moments, the world stopped. Dread filled Mycroft’s heart, his skin going clammy. Then he looked again. Just some tourist. Just some tourist with Sherrinford’s face shape. 

He squeezed his eyes shut. He was surely going mad. Greg joined him and they continued their walk, but Mycroft couldn’t engage properly in the conversation. Greg tried to ask what was wrong, but Mycroft shrugged him off, and eventually Greg led him back to the apartment. 

Mycroft sat on the balcony, staring out over the sea. Greg swam in the pool and then cooked them steak for dinner. He carried their plates out as the sun was setting. “Do you want company?” he asked.

“Of course,” Mycroft replied. “I am sorry.”

“It’s okay. It gets a bit much sometimes, I know that.” Greg forced a smile and sat opposite him. He poured himself a glass of water from the jug. “I was reading today. Well, I say reading, I was on Wikipedia.” 

Mycroft cut into his steak. “Oh?”

“Yeah, I never knew that Rome split in two.”

“Did you pay any attention at university?”

Greg laughed. “Er. No. But I’m paying attention to my history lessons from you, does that count?”

Mycroft managed the faintest of smiles. “Your grade remains unchanged,” he said. 

Greg grinned. “So, there was the west empire and the east empire.”

“The Byzantine Empire in the east.” 

“The capital city was Constantinople.”

Mycroft smiled. “You did pay attention.”

“Yeah, I did. So, I started reading about that too. And the city was really powerful. The most important place in Europe. I mean, why is it that these places with loads of power just end up falling apart? Everywhere just seems to be the biggest and the best, then it breaks up.”

“It happens. Everything… reaches breaking point eventually. Everything bends. Until it breaks.” Mycroft looked over to the sea. Was that him? Broken? ‘I don’t think it’s right to kill someone’, Greg had said… 

“So, I was reading that Constantinople had these really big defences… Mycroft, are you even listening to me?”

Mycroft snapped his head back. “I.” He sighed and pushed his plate aside. “No. No, I wasn’t.”

Greg frowned, clearly trying not to look hurt. “Look, if you need to be alone…”

“I don’t.” Mycroft took a long gulp of water. He took a long breath to compose himself. “Greg, do you remember a man escaping Belmarsh prison? It would have been January 2004.”

“2004? So, this is before I knew you. Before I knew Sherlock.”

“Yes. It would have been around a year before you knew us. He was the first man to escape Belmarsh, he was a former member of the IRA. He was responsible for a bombing, in which people died. There was a big manhunt.”

“It… kind of rings a bell. Maybe, yeah. Why?”

“The prisoner. He killed people after he escaped and the police shot him dead.”

“Oh! Yeah, yeah, I remember that. There was a big inquiry afterwards. I remember they eventually decided the officer did the right thing and our Commander gave some big speech. Yeah, that was pretty massive news for a while.”

Mycroft took a deep breath. “Greg, you have to understand that I… there are few things in my life that I… I have. I am…”

“Mycroft?”

Mycroft cleared his throat. “That man’s name was Sherrinford Holmes. And that isn’t a coincidence.” He looked up at Greg, though he was still afraid to meet his eyes. 

“Your…”

“Brother.”

Greg raised his eyebrows. “What? Brother?”

“My older brother.”

Greg stared at him. “Well I… Christ." He paused for a second. "Okay, I can understand why you’ve never said anything. That’s… Okay. Are you alright?” Mycroft swallowed and shook his head. Greg reached over and took hold of his hand, gripping it. “It’s okay,” Greg murmured. “I get it. You’re ashamed of what he did, it’s fine. I understand why you never said anything.”

“I killed him.” The second the words left his mouth, he felt a wave of nausea come over him. He tightened his hold on Greg’s hand, eyes fixed on the table. 

“You…” Greg stared. “No, an officer… A police…”

“I gave the order. And it was an order. I reasoned that there was no other option. No other prison would be able to keep him inside. That if he were allowed to live, then he would reignite the flames of the IRA. I alone made that final decision.”

Greg sat in silence. Their hands remained clasped, though Mycroft thought it was through habit rather than any genuine attempt at comfort. After a minute passed, he lifted his eyes to Greg’s. There was still confusion written on his features. He opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out. 

Mycroft turned his head to look at the sea. “Now you know,” he said, his voice distant, ashamed. 

“He was your brother.”

“Yes.” Mycroft could no longer look at him. “I had to protect this country. I did… I did what needed to be done. What no one else had the…” He trailed off. Was it courage, that had forced him to take that action? He wondered now whether it had been fear. He waited a moment before looking back at Greg, who was still silent, confusion and doubt, or perhaps that was disgust or horror, written over his face.  

Mycroft twitched his finger, and Greg let his whole hand slip from his grip. For a moment, Mycroft lingered, waiting. And then he heard his own voice in his head as he recited everything he had said. His detachment, his painful acceptance for what he had done. He replayed Greg’s confusion. Greg, who was a good man, Greg who had said ‘I don’t think it’s right to kill someone’. 

He pushed his chair away from the table. “Excuse me,” he murmured, spinning and walking back inside. He headed for the bedroom, stopping in the middle of the floor. For a second he thought he might be sick, his skin clammy, his chest tight. The nausea passed and instead he lay down on the bed. He found Greg’s shirt lying beside him and he pulled it close to him, burying his face in it. 

He’d known all along that Greg was good, that to love him and be loved by him was to taint him by association. How selfish was he, to be believe he ever deserved the love of a man like him? 

He heard the door open and he lowered the shirt. Wordlessly, Greg climbed onto the bed, sitting up beside him. He took the shirt from Mycroft’s hands, dropping it onto the floor. Mycroft felt the first sting of tears in his eyes. Had he ever cried for Sherrinford? He didn’t think he ever had. Even now, he wasn’t sure that was what he felt sorrowful for. He had never loved his older brother. Was that wrong? Should he have? 

Greg lay down beside him, and held his arm out to Mycroft. Mycroft frowned at him. “It’s okay,” Greg said. “Come on.”

Pressing his lips together, Mycroft sought his embrace. He buried his face in his chest, let Greg’s arms close around him. He didn’t deserve this, any of this. He didn’t deserve this happiness. And yet Greg still stayed, he still stayed… Why did he still stay?

“You’re a good man, Mycroft,” Greg whispered into his hair.

For a second, it was oblivion, and then it was pain, because Greg deserved so much better than the world Mycroft had led him in to. “No,” he choked out. Mycroft’s world was going to crumble one day, like the great cities, the great empires, and he was going to take Greg down with him, they’d crumble together, be left to rot together… “You can’t… you don’t…” 

“You’re a good man,” Greg repeated firmly. His hand rested on the back of Mycroft’s head. Mycroft let out a choked sob. “You’re a good man, Mycroft. You’re a good man. You’re a good man, and I love you.” 

He cried into Greg’s chest for the first time in his life. And all the while, Greg repeated the same words like a mantra. “You are a good man, Mycroft. And I love you. I love you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so mean to Mycroft. I don't even understand how I can be so mean to him. I never gave Greg this hard a time. Maybe I think he can take it? I'm so sorry for being so mean to him!
> 
> See some artwork by erbium_erin here: http://archiveofourown.org/works/6365131/chapters/14580814?show_comments=true&view_full_work=false#comment_58072933


	68. Waiting

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorrys, and more sorrys, and thank yous for your patience, and love for all your comments x

**September 2013.**

**Location: Almafi Coast, Italy.**

They lay together, Mycroft’s cheek resting over Greg’s heart, Greg’s fingers brushing through his hair. The emotion had been wrung out of him, leaving him dazed and just a little numb. Greg kept his touches soft and light, his lips sometimes whispering over Mycroft’s brow.

Mycroft lifted his head, and found Greg’s eyes looking back at him, his expression soft and fond. With a heavy sigh, Mycroft lay back down, letting his fingertips skim over Greg’s collarbone and then down to his chest. He rested his hand there, palm down, wordlessly willing him not to move. 

“If you’d like,” Mycroft started, breaking the silence which had lingered for well over an hour. “You can ask your questions. And then I’d prefer it if we never spoke about it again.” 

From beneath him, Greg shifted a little, his hand finding Mycroft’s. “I don’t have to ask anything. You don’t need to talk about it.”

“But for your own peace of mind, there must be things you would like to know.”

Greg sighed. “Yeah,” he admitted, his tone reluctant. “Yeah, I guess so.”

“Ask them.”

There was a long pause, Greg’s fingertips stroking against Mycroft’s hand. “How old were you when he… committed the crime?” Greg asked. 

Mycroft closed his eyes. “I was 14. He was 21.”

“I didn’t know you had any Irish links.”

“We don’t. He told me later in life that he had fallen for an Irish girl, and he built a bomb to gain her brother’s trust. I doubt he really cared what he was fighting for.”

“And then in 2004, he escaped prison.”

“He did.” Mycroft winced, regretful. “I always assumed Sherlock helped him. My brother was clever, but clever enough to escape Belmarsh? No. I later found out he was visited by Richard Brook.”

“Moriarty?”

“Yes. Moriarty helped him escape.”

Greg fell silent for a moment, squeezing Mycroft’s hand, providing reassurance that his silences were not anger or disappointment. “When did you realise you had to do what you did?” Greg asked him.

“Not straight away. I thought they might catch him. Then he began to kill former members of the IRA, those who were perceived to have abandoned the cause.” Mycroft pressed his lips together, remembering his own bewilderment as the events unfolded. “Our analysts were reporting a sudden spike in activity, talk of bombs and sleeper cells. I believed that if Sherrinford were allowed to live, then it would lead to a resurgence in IRA activity. And you know what that looked like. You were a police officer at that time.”

“Yeah, I remember.”

“We hadn’t experienced the July bombings then. But we were already preventing Al-Qaeda terrorist attacks. I imagined a time when we would be fighting terrorism on two fronts, using the same resources. I made a decision.”

“The lives of everyone mattered more than his.”

“The security of the nation mattered more than him. I spoke to senior members of MI6. And together we… devised a plan. Your Commander knew of it. He put the plans into action.”

“Seriously?”

Mycroft pulled a face. “This is classified information, I shouldn’t be telling you this.”

“I won’t say a word to anyone.”

Mycroft squeezed his hand. “I know.”

“Did Sherlock know?” Greg asked.

“He… thought he did. And there lies the root of mine and Sherlock’s problems. There were other underlying issues, of course. But at the root of it all, was this. He was seven at the time of my brother's arrest, and he liked Sherrinford. He did not like me.”

“Even after what he did?”

“I don’t know. I never asked.”

“Your parents?”

“No. I don’t even think they suspect anything. Or if they do, then they have repressed it. I did myself, successfully, for a number of years. I never even thought about it.”

“So what happened? What happened today to make you tell me?”

“It wasn’t just today,” Mycroft admitted. “I suppose something triggered it in my memory. They were talking about an IRA arrest on the radio. I realised it was Sherrinford’s 50th birthday. I knew I could never justify to you what I’d done .”

“What happened in Rome that night… is this what that was about?”

“I suspect so. I’ve only previously felt like that in a lift or an enclosed space or…” Mycroft gestured to the scars on his back. “While that was happening. And for some time afterwards.”

“When that happened… that night at the hotel. I was really scared. You were pale, not really talking. If that happens again, is there anything I need to do?” Greg asked. 

“You did a good job.”

“Yeah, okay. But… what can I do better?”

“I’ve never considered it before.” Mycroft paused, mulling it over. “Don’t crowd me. You don’t need to say anything. Just be there.”

“D’you reckon you need to speak to a doctor?”

“I… would prefer not to. I don’t think so. I think now I’ve told you… I think now I’ve told you, then it will be easier to live with.”

“Is this it then? Your big work secret?”

Mycroft sighed. “No. No, it isn’t. I still can’t tell you that.”

Greg kissed his hair. “Yeah. Alright. It’s okay.” 

Mycroft lifted his head to look at him. “We never finished dinner.”

“It’s probably been eaten by flies or something now. Want me to knock something up?”

“Together?” Mycroft asked.

“Yeah, sure.” 

Reluctantly, Mycroft rolled off him rubbing his face and stretching. They went to the kitchen and put together a tray of breads, cheeses and dips. It was still warm outside, warm enough to return to the balcony and listen to the sound of the waves. Later, Greg fetched a blanket and they huddled beneath it, Greg’s arm protectively wrapped over Mycroft’s shoulders. 

* * *

The next day, they went on a boat trip. The tourist season was winding down, and so they had a large amount of space to themselves. Mycroft sat in the shade, while Greg lay in just a pair of shorts on a lounger on his back. But close enough that he could reach out and touch Mycroft’s fingers with his own.

“What superpower would you have?” Greg asked.

Mycroft dropped his newspaper into his lap, looking down at him through his sunglasses. “Superpower?”

“Yeah, if someone offered you a superpower of your choice, what would you choose?”

“You said I already have a superpower.”

“Did I?”

“Yes. My superior intellect.” 

Greg laughed. “Okay, fine, if someone said you could have a second superpower.”

“What are my choices?”

“Anything you like. Invisibility?”

“I have deductive powers already. I don’t need to be invisible to see into someone’s life.”

Greg grinned at him. “Yeah, yeah, alright, you’re already a superhero, I get it. What about superhuman strength? Or the ability to go really small? Or shoot fire from your hands?”

“I would pause time,” Mycroft decided. “Except for you and I. So you and I could sit here and relax forever.”

Greg hummed. “You softy.”

Mycroft smiled to himself, turning a page in the newspaper. But every now and then, he couldn’t help but look down at Greg as he soaked up the sun’s rays. 

Afterwards, they ate at a seafood restaurant, where Mycroft tested out some Italian, and Greg declared it was the thing that turned him on more than anything else in the world. By then, they’d both had some wine, and Mycroft spoke to him in his full repertoire of languages. 

By the time they’d arrived back at the apartment, they could not keep their hands off each other. They just about made it to bed, tumbling onto it in a mess of limbs and pulling at one another’s clothes. 

When Mycroft finally thrust home, Greg’s legs wrapped around his waist, he felt revived and refreshed. Most of all, he thought he was going to be okay. He thought they were going to be okay. 

* * *

**Location: Crusader House, Pall Mall, London.**

He lingered that first morning he went back to work. Stood hovering in the doorway to his and Greg’s bedroom, watching as he slept still, the covers pulled up to his chin.

Mycroft wasn’t convinced he was ready to return to the real world. He dreaded the length of his to-do list and the late nights. He feared the outcome of Sherlock’s trial, and days watching the newspapers dissect every word said in court. 

But he could not stand there watching Greg sleep, never mind how much he longed to. 

For the first few days, he didn’t switch off once. He had to acquaint himself with situations which had been rumbling on for days, and work out what had gone on before those issues had landed on his desk. Anthea did her best to help him settle back in, but it still took longer than he anticipated. 

It was a Friday afternoon when he travelled to Westminster, finding the Home Secretary Lady Smallwood already waiting for him sat at a round boardroom table. She rose from her seat, a small smile on her face. “Mycroft Holmes,” she said, reaching out to shake his hand. “It’s been too long.”

Mycroft smiled his response, taking a seat, with Anthea beside him. He skimmed over the agenda. They were discussing a new terrorism bill, one written by Andrew Regis. The Prime Minister was determined to see it pass, and Lady Smallwood was now spearheading it. 

This was the first chance for the secret services to take a look at the draft and make any suggestions or amendments. Mycroft felt it was prudent to scrap the whole thing. It was invasive. Privacy campaigners would be appalled, and with good reason. The Government would argue it was necessary for preventing terrorism. Mycroft wondered whether it would truly make any difference at all, except to strip every citizen of their privacy, one carefully-worded paragraph at a time. 

They were joined by Hugh Seagroves and Nadia Swift of MI6 and MI5 respectively. Sylvia Ross arrived with two employees in tow, each carrying briefcases full of paperwork on her behalf. Two MPs joined them, Conservative backbenchers both. And finally, there was Lord Moran, Minister for Overseas Development. 

Mycroft gave him a once over, discomforted by his presence. He was a traditionally handsome man, distinguished-looking with a strong jawline, his once-black hair now streaked with grey. 

“My sincere apologies for being so late,” Lord Moran said, taking the final seat, his assistant stood behind him. “Commons business, it does have a tendency to over-run.” He looked around the table, until his eyes fell on Mycroft. “I don’t believe we’ve met.”

Mycroft held his eyes, with an expression designed to unsettle. “Mycroft Holmes.”

“Mr Holmes oversees the Intelligence and Security Committee,” Sylvia explained. “He is as well-placed as anyone to make comments on this bill.”

“Unlike me, you mean,” Lord Moran said with a crooked smile. “I admit, I do not seem well-qualified to comment. But this bill will have great consequences for our relationships with other heads of state, and the Prime Minister personally requested my involvement.”

“I never questioned your involvement,” Mycroft replied, turning his attention from him, acting as though he regarded him as distinctly unimportant. “Can we move on?” 

He kept his tongue through most of the afternoon. He wanted to know what everyone else thought so he could develop his own strategies for dealing with the legislation. Hugh Seagroves was in favour of the bill in its current format, though he made it clear that he was already bored and had better ways to spend his Friday afternoons than scrutinising documents. Nadia Swift had some very specific reservations. Sylvia Ross warned of the costs. Lady Smallwood cared about the semantics. The MPs cared about public perception. Lord Moran stayed quiet. 

He also left early, muttering his apologies and giving his seat up for his assistant. Mycroft scribbled out a note for Anthea and passed it to her. ‘Watch him’, it said. 

* * *

**October 2013.**

**Location: The Houses Of Parliament, Westminster, London.**

Secrets weighed heavy on his conscience. He sat by the fire for hours at home, pondering his next moves. He read every newspaper report he could about Sherlock’s trial, trying to gauge public opinion. He saw enemies around every corner. It wouldn’t take a lot to uproot the whole trial, or to threaten him or Sherlock. It wouldn’t take a lot to undermine everything he had spent years working towards.

He tried to put safeguards in place. He began to avoid meetings in public locations, and with people he did not know or trust. He sent Anthea in his place. He restricted his inner circle to those he was sure were his allies. He turned down invitations to gatherings and parties. 

Sherlock’s life, he was sure, hung by a knife’s edge. Sherlock was running and running, and Mycroft was waiting and worrying. 

And Greg… Greg was comforting and secure, and felt like home and Mycroft knew Greg was concerned about him. But Mycroft could not say a word, he couldn’t explain. 

One last secret, he told himself. It was one last secret, one last lie. A secret and a lie he knew could end it all, which could spell disaster for their relationship. But he had to stop thinking that way, for the sake of them both. 

Mycroft stumbled into Lady Smallwood as she was leaving the House Of Commons, having released the first draft of the Anti-Terrorism and Investigatory Powers Bill. It would go before various committees now, to be scrutinised properly, in public. 

“A coffee?” Lady Smallwood asked, leading him away from the crowds. Mycroft followed her to the brightly-lit cafe area, and bought them both a pot of tea. “How is your brother’s trial?” Lady Smallwood asked as they took their seats, Mycroft sat so he could observe the comings and goings of various MPs.

“Hard to tell,” Mycroft admitted. “Endless.”

“Then the judge is being thorough. Can you ask for more than that?”

“No. The anti-terrorism bill is a travesty.”

Lady Smallwood bit into a biscuit. “It is only making legal what the security services have been doing for years. Anyway, that isn’t what I wanted to talk to you about.”

“No?” Mycroft asked. 

“No. We’re making moves on the phone hacking enquiry. We’re drawing up a list of witnesses and interviewees. You’ve made the list.”

Mycroft shot her a look. “What?”

“You’re on the list to be interviewed.”

“In a public enquiry? Why?”

“Because, according to the police records, your phone was among those hacked," Lady Smallwood told him. 

“I have nothing to add to an enquiry. I wasn’t even aware… what did they get from it?”

“We don’t know.”

“I can’t appear in a public enquiry.”

“Well, I didn’t think you would,” Lady Smallwood said. “But it was Magnussen’s newspapers who hacked your phone. Allegedly,” she added with a roll of her eyes. “I thought you ought to be aware you were targeted. No one really knows who you are, Mr Holmes. I can’t imagine the average newspaper editor would even know about your true role. So where do you think the order come from?”

“Is this your way of warning me to be careful?” Mycroft asked, frowning.

“I don’t have an opinion either way on what you do or don’t do.”

“But you are warning me. What do you know that I don’t?”

Lady Smallwood finished her tea. “I know you’ve made enemies. I know you’re only sitting in Westminster now because I am your ally. I know the Prime Minister is looking for ways to get rid of you.” She rose gracefully from her seat, opened her mouth as though to speak and then stopped herself. “I’ll take you off the phone hacking enquiry witness list,” she said instead. “But I would be more careful about your phone if I were you.”

“Yes,” Mycroft agreed, already reaching for his phone and making a note to delete everything from it.

* * *

He got home from work on his birthday, to smell casserole wafting from the kitchen. He wandered past the table in the living room with a pile of presents on top and then followed his nose to where Greg was dishing up their dinners, an easy smile on his face. They shared a quick kiss before Mycroft went back to the bedroom to change his clothes into something less formal. 

“I think the judge is going to make a decision on Sherlock on Monday or Tuesday,” Greg told him as they sat down. “I was there this afternoon, and they’re just going through the final reports now.”

“Which way will he go, do you think?”

“Hard to tell. I think the evidence all points in the right direction, but the judge is going to sit down with it all and think it over. It’s all in his hands, which is crap, but we’ve done everything we could.”

Mycroft sighed. “We should talk about something else,” he said. “I waste too many hours thinking about an outcome I can no longer control.”

Greg reached over the table, giving Mycroft’s hand a squeeze. “You and me both,” he said, before returning to his meal. “That’s why I thought we’d just have a quiet one tonight.”

“You know me too well,” Mycroft replied with a grateful smile. 

“I’ve been working very hard. I won’t be happy unless I get an A in Mycroft Holmes.”

“I think you have already achieved an A-star.”

Greg grinned. “I like that. But you’ve got to give me some room for improvement.”

“Tell me about your day.”

Greg shrugged. “It got better as it went on. Devon police tracked down that guy who killed his family. So at least we’re not worrying about him being on the loose anymore.” 

“Small mercies, I suppose.”

“Yeah. I’ve got a pile of paperwork as tall as me to deal with when I get in tomorrow though. But hey, we got him. I’ve had worse days.”

“Mmm. Yes. I agree.”

“You’ve had worse days too?”

“Yes, and better ones. My phone was hacked. Allegedly.”

Greg's eyes widened. “Shit, really? Did they get anything off it?”

“I don’t think so. I’ve been thinking about it all day, but I can’t remember ever seeing a news report which could only have come from a voicemail on my phone. That’s not to say it didn’t happen, but the stories must have had confirmation from other sources.”

“We’ve got two Met policemen suspended at the moment on phone hacking charges,” Greg told him. “City police has three. It’s a mess.”

“It is. The royals, an assortment of celebrities and politicians and crime victims have all had their phones hacked. The enquiries will begin soon, and then the court cases.”

“It sounds like it’s been going on for years. You sure you don’t need to worry about it?”

Mycroft sighed. “I hope not. I’m not going to be a witness. But if a policeman or journalist takes the stand and lists me as one of those they hacked… then there will be interest. Reporters will want to know who I am, and why I was worthy of hacking.” Mycroft put down his cutlery. “Just another issue I can’t control.”

Greg pushed their plates aside, reaching over the table to take both of Mycroft’s hands in his. “Wine?” he asked.

“Yes please.”

Greg squeezed his hands, and then lifted one so he could kiss his knuckles. The smile on Mycroft’s face was fleeting but adoring, as Greg poured them both a glass and carried them to the living room. 

Greg put on music, leaving his iPod on shuffle. Mycroft didn’t recognise all of the songs. But they were all similar in theme, slow, with a steady beat and calming vocals. They all sang of love, enduring love, and new love. Mycroft settled at Greg’s side, cheek against his chest, Greg’s arm stretched over his shoulders. 

He unwrapped each of Greg’s presents, a Folio Society book called Rare Treasures: From The Library Of The Natural History Museum, [cufflinks](https://www.etsy.com/uk/listing/196117324/muonionalusta-meteorite-sterling-silver?ga_order=most_relevant&ga_search_type=all&ga_view_type=gallery&ga_search_query=meteorite&ref=sr_gallery_9) with a sample of meteorite set inside silver squares, and a wooden chest filled with cheeses and meats and wines they had developed both a taste for while they were in Italy. Mycroft thanked him with kisses for each of the thoughtful gifts, and they ate some of the cheese with biscuits and drank the sweet wine. 

They sat in content silence afterwards with only the fire for light, Greg with his eyes closed as he sipped his wine and pressed the occasional kiss to the top of Mycroft’s head. Mycroft stroked his fingers, tapping his thumb to the beat from the music. 

“We haven’t done this enough lately,” Mycroft murmured, downing the last of his wine and putting it down on the table. He curled closer to Greg. “I’m sorry for that.”

“I think it’s been fine, love,” Greg said. “Yeah, we haven’t had time to just sit here and… do this. But I don’t think that’s something you need to apologise for. That’s all relationships.”

“Still. I’m afraid I’ve been… neglectful.”

“Nope. You haven’t been.”

“You’re too patient with me.”

“That’s not it either,” Greg said. “You show me you love me every day. I know you don’t realise that. But you do."

“I can’t understand what I did to deserve you.”

“You’re just you, Mycroft. That’s all I want.” Greg put his wine down and disentangled himself from Mycroft’s embrace. He stood up and held a hand out to him. “Dance with me?”

Mycroft looked up at him, still amazed at how he could feel such an overwhelming wave of affection for a man he had known for so long. “I’d love to.” He took Greg’s hand, letting him help him to his feet. They stopped in the centre of the floor, pausing as they gazed at each other. They both laughed, stepping closer, Mycroft resting his cheek against Greg’s shoulder as he wrapped an arm around his waist, their hands still clasped together. 

Mycroft let out a sigh, letting his eyes fall closed as he responded to Greg’s movements, his slow sways and tiny steps. They fell into a rhythm, Greg occasionally humming along to the music as they moved, feeling the heat from the fire. 

Mycroft lifted his head and pressed his mouth to Greg’s, lifting his hands to cup his cheeks. He found himself smiling, as Greg’s lips moved against his, a hand dropping to squeeze Mycroft’s backside to pull him closer. 

“God,” Greg breathed out against Mycroft’s mouth, hand stroking over his arse. 

Mycroft sighed and smiled and kissed him again, and silently promised himself to ignore his concerns and focus on Greg’s lips on his, his arms around him. They made swift work of removing each other’s clothes, letting every layer fall to the floor until they stood in their underwear and socks, unable to keep their hands off each other. Greg toed his socks off before leading Mycroft to the settee. 

“How many times have we ended up here?” Greg grinned as he pulled Mycroft on top of him, his legs wrapping around his waist. “We never manage to make it to the bedroom.”

“We could move?” Mycroft suggested, pressing kisses to his neck. 

Greg’s hands stroked up and down Mycroft’s back, before hooking in the waistband of his underwear. “No, I like how you look in the firelight.”

They broke apart so they could remove the last pieces of clothing, before pressing together, losing themselves in each other’s touch, sharing breaths and kisses. Mycroft could only focus on Greg. He was surrounded by him, lost in him, his thoughts muddled by a desperation to come and an equal determination not to, to let the minutes slip by, while he was connected to Greg and allowing the universe disappear. 

He buried his face in Greg’s neck, shuddering as Greg’s hand stroked his cock, fingers finding the most sensitive parts of him. He kissed him, and he kissed him, and he stroked Greg's cock until their moans were lost in each other’s mouths, and it was just like oblivion, that beautiful, blissful absence of thought. It was everything. He had everything he had ever wanted in Greg, with Greg. 

They came, and let out breathless sighs, still touching, still kissing, still whispering sweet nothings like ‘I love you’, like ‘wonderful’, like ‘perfect’. 

What a beautiful dream it all was, Mycroft thought as they finally got into bed, both huddling close, sharing the same pillow as they smiled at one another and touched their noses together. 

In Greg’s arms, he slept easily. In Greg’s arms, he forgot to be afraid about what the next days would bring. 


	69. Neglectful

**October 2013.**

**Location: The Coeur de Lion Offices, Mayfair, London.**

“The judge will make a decision in half an hour,” Anthea said.

Mycroft froze, gripping his phone. He had been waiting for weeks, months, years, suddenly he wasn’t sure how long, but it felt like forever, just to hear those words.

“Mr Holmes?” Anthea prompted.

Mycroft took a deep breath, finding his voice. “Call me immediately after,” he said. He squeezed his eyes shut. “Anthea…”

She must have heard the tremor in his voice, because she immediately rushed to soothe him. “It’s going to be okay," she promised. "Greg’s here, I’ll take care of him.”

“Anthea," Mycroft warned. "He doesn’t know.”

“I know. It’ll be fine.”  

“Call me immediately,” he said. “When you know.” He hung up and pressed his phone to his chest. Half an hour to wait.

He sat back down at his desk, and turned to the BBC’s live blog of Sherlock’s trial. He skimmed through the tweets, the opinion pieces, the guesses. They were all just guesses into the judge's decision. All it came down to now was one man’s opinion. For the moment, Mycroft didn’t concern himself with whether Sherlock was safe, what he was doing or even where he was. Because without this… without this, everything was futile. Nothing else mattered.

The minutes went by as though time itself had become stuck in treacle. As though the universe, and the universes beyond that, were imploding and you could forget Einstein, discount Newton, because suddenly time was non-existent.

He had to read the blog as it updated with journalists’ views, and what was happening in the courtroom. There were pictures of the ‘I Believe In Sherlock Holmes’ club, with t-shirts and posters and badges. Pictures of Sherlock, with reminders of who he was and what he ‘claimed to have done’.

And then the updates began, with tweets and messages appearing every 10 seconds or so.

 

_Judge: SH committed suicide. Inquest verdict sustained_

_BREAKING: Richard Brook NOT killed by SH_

_Breaking: Richard Brook killed himself_

_Richard Brook inquest re-opened_

_BREAKING NEWS: Judge says Richard Brook did not exist before 2001_

_BREAKING: Richard Brook IS Moriarty - judge_

_Breaking: Judge rules criminal Moriarty made up Richard Brook_

_Inquest into James Moriarty re-opened._

_Trials into Pentonville, Bank of England & Tower of London break-ins re-opened _

 

Mycroft caught his breath, still staring as the reactions scrolled down his screen. There was a knock on the door, and it was Mads offering his congratulations, and Mycroft could hear cheering in the room beyond. He had no idea why his employees cared so much, or whether it was about Sherlock or, even more bafflingly, that it may have been about Mycroft himself. But Sherlock was free to return, a free man, a man without the title ‘liar’ and ‘murderer’ hanging over his head.

And oh God, Greg. Greg.

 

MESSAGES Anthea Boyette  
15.32: Innocent. Moriarty made up  
Richard Brook. Got everything we  
wanted.

 

Mycroft stared down at the words. They had got what they wanted. Hadn’t they? Well, yes, they had, but Greg, but Greg, but Greg…

Mycroft went home. He managed a ‘thank you’ in response to every hearty congratulation, and even managed to shake Mads’ hand and smile for a moment. But all he saw was Greg’s face before his eyes, and then the knowledge of their inevitable separation.

Max drove him to Crusader House, and he poured himself a cup of tea and tried to compose himself. They’d made this home together. They loved each other, and through thick and thin, they had made it this far. They had never stood up in front of their loved ones and made a public vow, but they had made promises enough to each other. That this, their relationship, was for the rest of their lives. But some things were unforgivable. This lie was unforgivable. Some things were not possible to get past.

Mycroft tried to eat some toast, but he felt too sick to eat. So he locked himself in his office and tried to read his reports, but the words seemed to swim before his eyes.

He took himself to bed, and tried to sleep. He supposed he must have, for when he next opened his eyes he found it was already dark outside. He sat on the edge of the bed and stared down at his knees. Faintly, he heard the front door open, and Greg walking around the flat, but he couldn’t get up to welcome him. He didn’t know how to say it, he only knew that he had to. It was time now. It was time now.

He dropped his head into his hands. He tried to remember the last time he had kissed Greg (it must have been that morning), the last time they had made love (they’d had sex the night before, but it had been a few days before that when he was last inside him). When had they last held hands in public? When had they last watched a film together or kissed in the rain or sat in a bath together? The last times, surely, all the last times… And yet Mycroft suddenly couldn't remember any of them. 

Warm hands took hold of Mycroft’s and lowered them from his face.

“Mycroft?” Greg asked with a soft, caring voice, on his knees in front of him.

Mycroft managed to shake his head, and wished for a second, wished for the first time in his life, that Greg was anywhere but beside him.

“Alright,” Greg whispered. “It’s alright. I’ll just sit here until you’re ready, yeah?”

Mycroft swallowed. “Sally Donovan did a wonderful job on the case,” he managed, the words foreign to his ears.

“Yeah, she did.”

“She did far more than I ever expected. The verdict today…” Mycroft squeezed his eyes closed.

“I know,” Greg said.

“No. No, you don’t know.” Mycroft looked back at him. Gazed at Greg’s concerned expression, the care in his brown eyes. “You don’t understand what today’s verdict means.”

“Yeah, I do. It means everyone knows Sherlock was innocent all along.”

“Greg,” Mycroft whispered. He reached for him, brushing his fingertips down his cheek. His hand trembled. “You know my feelings for you.”

“Of course I know,” Greg replied.

“And you know that I believe in the greater good, as you always put it, above all other things. But that the sentiment I feel towards you… and towards Sherlock… is as great as anything I could ever feel.”

Greg frowned. “What are you trying to say?”

Mycroft felt the words deep in his chest, jammed in there. He felt sick. “My brother isn’t dead.”

He saw the swift, sharp shock take over Greg’s expression just for a second, until it gave way to confusion. “I’m sorry, what?”

“Sherlock isn’t dead.” Mycroft lifted his eyes to meet Greg’s bewildered expression. “I’m sorry.”

Greg leaned back, but continued to hold Mycroft’s hand. “Love, did you hit your head? Are you… are you feeling okay?”

“I feel fine.” Greg stood up, touching Mycroft’s forehead with the backs of his fingers. Mycroft started to pull away. “Greg. I’m not ill. I’m telling you the truth.”

“No,” Greg half-laughed. Bewilderment was giving way to denial. “You just told me Sherlock’s not dead. How the hell can that possibly be the truth?”

Mycroft’s mouth went dry. “Because I helped him fake it.”

“Fuck,” Greg muttered, staring around the room. “Alright, I’m ringing an ambulance. You’re going to be okay.”

“Greg, I’m not…” Mycroft sighed. “I’m not going mad. Sherlock’s not dead.”

“Yes, he is,” Greg snapped at him.

“No, Greg,” Mycroft told him firmly. “It was part of a plan to stop Moriarty. One of several strategies he and I devised. He’s very much alive.”

“No,” Greg said, letting go of Mycroft’s hand and taking a step back. “Shut up.”

“It’s true.”

“No. No, no, no,” he pointed at Mycroft. “Sherlock’s dead. Everyone knows he’s dead. There was an inquest, there must have been a body. Molly just gave testimony in court for God’s sake!”

Mycroft hung his head. “Molly was in on it," he admitted. 

“No. I don’t believe you. Stop doing this.”

“Why would I lie?”

“Molly wouldn’t perjure herself. You’re having delusions. You’re ill. Let’s go to a doctor now.”

“Greg!” Mycroft snapped. “I don’t have any evidence to give to you. But you have my word. I’m not ill.”

Greg swallowed and clenched his fist at his side. The full realisation of Mycroft’s betrayal spread over his face. “Then you’ve been lying to me for two years,” Greg said in a low voice. Mycroft reached for his arm and Greg pulled it away. “Don’t.”

Mycroft’s heart sunk. “Greg, I’m sorry. If I can explain-”

“-Explain? How the hell are you going to explain this?” Greg took more steps away from the bed. “You have lied to me for two whole bloody years! You knew what I went through. You saw what happened and you just. Bloody hell, Mycroft.” Greg turned away from him.

“I’m sorry. But we had to.”

“You should have told me!” Greg snapped, turning back to him. “Hell, you should have told John!”

“We couldn’t. Please,” Mycroft whispered desperately. “I can explain everything.”

“I don’t want you to,” Greg shouted at him. He grabbed his coat from the cupboard. “I’m going. Just… just tell me one thing. Is he alright?”

“I don’t know.”

“But he’s alive.”

“Our intelligence suggests-”

“-Bugger your intelligence. Is Sherlock alright?”

“I hope so,” Mycroft whispered.

Greg pulled his coat on. “Christ.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I don’t want to hear it.” And with that, Greg stormed out of their bedroom, doors slamming behind him as he went. Mycroft pressed his lips together. He hadn’t really expected it to go any better than that, he supposed. And perhaps he had to be thankful that Greg had only gone out, that he hadn’t made any immediate decisions about their future. Perhaps that would come in the next few hours.

Greg had a history of being betrayed, Mycroft knew. He took Jane back, despite her infidelity, but still… Still, that was nothing compared to this. And anyway. Did Mycroft truly want to condemn him to a relationship where only Greg had been entirely honest the whole time?

Mycroft sat on the bed for a while, staring listlessly at the wall. Eventually, he moved. He went to his office, and sat down to do the work he had struggled to focus on earlier. It was no easier.

He tried to make contact with Sherlock in Hungary, or at the very least with Edward Palfrey who had gone to join him in the past few days. But their phones were both dead, and Mycroft would have to wait for them to make contact with him instead.

Greg spent that night, and the two after that, in the spare bedroom. He ignored Mycroft whenever he tried to speak to him.

This was worse, Mycroft thought. The slow unravelling of their relationship, dragged out without the inevitable fight or sorry resolution. He lay awake, his own arms wrapped around himself, still smelling Greg’s aftershave on the pillow beside him.

Thank small mercies for the work, he thought on the third night as he sat in his office in Crusader House. He knew he might as well get used to it. For the meantime, perhaps forever, this was all he had to focus on.

There was plenty to be getting on with, as he tried to push his feelings to the side. He had enjoyed almost two wonderful years with Greg. It was far more than he had ever dreamed he would have. It would get easier, he knew that. He had learned to live without Greg before, he could do it again. And at least this time, he would have a million perfect memories to think back on. He glanced down at the photograph on his desk, one of them both in their hotel in Italy, a picture he hadn’t found completely detestable.

Mycroft had turned his head away from the camera. His nose was pressed against Greg’s cheek and his eyes were closed, but still he smiled, even while Greg insisted on taking the picture of them both. Greg was grinning, like he couldn’t be happier. He wasn’t wearing a shirt, and his hair was still damp from his shower. Mycroft would remember the two of them like that, he thought. He would remember those days where they were happy and content, and not the last days of silence, and their final angry exchanges.

Letting out a sigh, Mycroft stood up to go to the kitchen. He opened the door, to find Greg stood in the living room dressed in some flannel trousers and a grey t-shirt.

“Greg,” Mycroft managed. He braced himself for the inevitable brush-off in response.

“Yeah,” Greg said instead. “Hi.”

Mycroft paused, watchful and holding his breath, as someone may watch a startled deer. “I thought you were asleep.”

“Thought that might be the case.”

“I was about to make a coffee.”

“Okay.”

Mycroft frowned. “Did you want one?” he offered.

“No.”

“Right.” Mycroft’s eyes lingered on him for a second, as though it was the final time his eyes may ever focus on him. Reluctant, he looked away and wandered to the kitchen.

To his surprise, Greg followed him, but Mycroft did not turn to look at him. “I take it you’re too busy,” Greg said to his back.

“Too busy for what exactly?” Mycroft asked as he busied himself with the kettle. “More silence?”

“I want to talk.”

“Good Lord,” Mycroft muttered bitterly. “I was beginning to think you’d lost the power of speech.”

Greg scoffed. “Fine, if you’re gonna be a dickhead about it then…”

Mycroft spun around to face him. “You are acting like a child.”

Greg turned his lip up. “It’s a trick I got from Sherlock, God rest his soul… oh wait. Hang on.”

Mycroft folded his arms. “Say what you want to say and do what you’re going to do. Stop dragging it out.” The kettle clicked and Mycroft heard Greg leave the room. Mycroft let out a soft sigh. Being defensive was hardly going to work, he knew that. He took out a second mug, and made them both a drink.

“I didn’t want coffee,” Greg said as Mycroft carried the two mugs through to the living room. Greg had taken up residence in Mycroft’s usual chair, arms folded across his chest, his gaze hard and challenging.

“Then don’t drink it,” Mycroft replied sharply, slamming the mug down on the table and watching as hot coffee spilt onto the coaster and the table.

Too enraged to clear it up, Mycroft perched on the edge of the settee opposite. For a few seconds, anger bubbled inside him. And then, watching Greg, watching the man he loved, knowing he had no right to be angry at him, Mycroft grew unsettled. Weariness settling into his bones, he lowered his gaze and gave in and sunk back against the cushions.

Greg’s glare cut straight through him and Mycroft had to look away. “You lied to me for two years,” Greg spat out.

Mycroft stared down, unseeing, at his knees. “I know.”

“Was this it? Was this your great big secret?”

Mycroft swallowed. “It was.”

“So go on. What was this all about then? Another big lie to save my life?”

“It started that way.”

Greg groaned. “For God’s sake.”

“Greg.” Mycroft lifted his head. “I know you have a lot of questions. But can I try to explain this from the beginning?”

Greg’s lips were pressed tight together, his shoulders tense. “Yeah,” he finally said, still frowning. “Yeah, alright.”

Mycroft let out a sigh. It all seemed so long ago now. Sometimes it had even seemed to himself that Sherlock really was dead.

“Moriarty had gunmen trained on three people Sherlock cared about,” Mycroft began. “If Sherlock lived, then they would die. We planned to take Moriarty out. When Sherlock met him on that roof, we have several plans in mind. In the end, we were forced to choose Operation Lazarus. We had to pretend Sherlock died in order to save those three people.”

“And then what?”

“We had hoped we could take those gunmen out and then return Sherlock to London. But we soon realised how deep Moriarty’s network went. If we killed those gunmen, there would be more. And more. And so Sherlock began to travel the world, dismantling the web, one thread at a time. If those in that web ever got wind that Sherlock was alive, his life, and the lives of those three, would be in immediate danger. Goodness knows how many other lives would have been at stake too.”

"Who were the three?”

“John Watson.”

“Oh right, yeah.”

“Mrs Hudson. And you.”

Greg stared at him. “What? Me?”

“Yes, Greg. Yes, you were one of the three.”

Greg drank from his mug, silence descending on them. Greg put his mug back down. “Wait, so, he did it to protect me? Sherlock doesn't even know my first name and he did it to save me?”

“Moriarty had guns pointed at three of the people Sherlock cared about the most.”

Greg looked baffled. “John, I get. Mrs Hudson, I get. But me. I don't get it. Why not you?”

“Do you honestly think Sherlock doesn't realise what you have sacrificed for him? That he doesn't appreciate how many times you have saved his life? My brother may appear unfeeling, but he rather lets emotions get in the way on occasion. Of course you. You gave him chances when no one else would. Not even me.”

Greg frowned. “He… he sacrificed his life for us. Even if he didn’t die, that’s what he did.”

“Yes.”

Greg’s expression softened. “How’s he doing? Really?”

“I don’t know,” Mycroft admitted, still frustrated at his brother’s lack of contact. “We lost track of him in Eastern Europe.”

“Have you spoken to him? Since he ‘died’?”

“Yes.”

“Have… did you see him?”

“Once.”

“Where? Wait.” Greg held his hand up and pointed at Mycroft with a knowing expression. “New Delhi.”

Mycroft tilted his head. “How did you know?”

“I’m not an idiot.” Greg paused. “And Anderson mentioned New Delhi and I remembered you going there.”

“Anderson?”

“Yeah. He figured it out. So… did Sherlock stamp a cigarette out on your arm?”

Mycroft nodded. “He was struggling with drugs.”

“Jesus.” Greg rubbed his face. He held Mycroft’s eyes. “I could have been here for you. If you’d just told me.”

“You would have perjured yourself in this recent trial.”

“I don’t care.”

“I care,” Mycroft whispered. “You are a policeman. And you can’t lie to save your life.”

“Good job you can, hey?” Mycroft glanced down at his knees. Greg sighed. “What do you want Mycroft?”

“I wish. If I could go back two years. I would do it all differently.”

“You can’t. You can’t just go back and undo it, that’s now how the world works. So right now, what do you want?”

“To bring Sherlock home,” Mycroft replied softly.

“Yeah,” Greg agreed, looking down at the floor. “Yeah.”

Mycroft clasped his hands together in his lap. “What do you want?” he asked, trying to mask the way his voice shook.

“Sherlock home. I want. I want to fast-forward three months. Have Sherlock back and this not matter.”

“If I can’t undo the past then you can’t go forward in time either.”

“No,” Greg agreed. “And I don’t want to be three months in the future without you. But I don’t know how we get through this. I don’t know how I forgive this.”

Mycroft’s mouth went dry. “What are you saying?”

“I don’t know. I just don’t know where we go from here. I mean. It’s going to take some time but… You know. I am so fucking furious with you. I have never been so bloody angry.” Greg took a deep breath, staring up at the ceiling before he turned his attention back to Mycroft. “And I have never loved you so goddamn much either, and that’s also royally pissing me off.”

Mycroft hesitated, trying to keep his hope at bay. “I’m sorry?”

“You brought him back, Mycroft. It feels like you bloody resurrected him or something. How can I be mad at you for that? You brought him back to us.” Mycroft only frowned, his chest tightening. It didn’t sound like goodbye. “Mycroft?” Greg pressed.

“I don’t understand.”

“What don’t you get?”

“What I did.” Mycroft felt suddenly cold. “I’m quite certain it’s unforgivable.”

“You thought I was gonna leave,” Greg whispered. “You thought I was going to leave you.”

Mycroft looked away from him. “I was rather waiting for that inevitability, yes.”

“Look. I don’t trust you. You lied to me. And there’s a whole heap of other stuff I haven’t even sorted out in my head yet. But unless I got something wrong, I thought we were planning to spend the rest of our lives together.”

Mycroft stayed still and silent, not sure if he trusted himself to speak.

“Mycroft,” Greg continued. “I think you did this for the right reasons. You and Sherlock. You hurt a lot of people. And that’s never going to go away. Not for John. Maybe not for me. But I didn’t get into this thinking you were some sort of saint. I didn’t think that you were never going to make mistakes. And don’t get me wrong, this is a whopping big mistake, and it’s going to take a long time for me to trust you again. But when I fast-forward three months and Sherlock’s home… Mycroft, I still see me with you. I want to grow old with you. And I hope that’s what you want too.”

“It is,” Mycroft whispered.

“And what else have you lied to me about?”

“Nothing. This is all of it. And the very worst of it.”

Greg drank his coffee. Mycroft watched him and then settled back against the sofa, listening only to their breaths and the silence still heavy around them.

“Did you prevent a thorough police investigation into Sherlock and Moriarty’s death straight after it happened?” Greg eventually asked.

“Yes.”

“Why did you avoid me for months?”

“To pretend I didn’t care about you, and that I blamed you for Sherlock’s death so that those following you didn’t for a second believe Sherlock wasn’t dead.”

“And then when the the gunman was gone, that policeman. Owen. When he went, you finally talked to me again.”

“Correct.” Mycroft stood up and walked over to him before holding his hands out. Greg paused for a moment before taking them, looking up at him. “I know I let you down,” Mycroft said. “And you must believe me when I tell you that keeping this secret has been agony.”

“No more secrets.”

“None, I promise.”

Greg squeezed his hands and stood up. Mycroft held his eyes, hardly daring to breathe. And then Greg’s arms snaked around him, and he drew him close against his firm chest. And it was everything.

“I missed you,” Greg said near his ear, his lips brushing against his skin.

Mycroft swallowed, his hands resting on Greg’s back. “We’ll have a quiet weekend,” he promised, closing his eyes, too afraid to move, afraid it would all just slip away.

Greg pulled back to look at him. “Yes please.”

Mycroft bit his lip. “Did you mean it?” he asked.

“Mean what?”

“That we will be spending the rest of our lives together.”

“Yeah,” Greg said, touching his cheek. “Yeah, of course I meant that.” Greg kissed him, gentle but sure, letting it last. “I thought that was obvious,” Greg breathed against his lips before lifting his eyes to Mycroft’s. Mycroft could only stare. “Shh,” Greg whispered, stroking his fingertips against Mycroft’s temples. “You know it, in here.” Mycroft nodded dumbly. Greg dropped one hand and rested it over Mycroft’s heart. “In here too.”

“Emotions don’t come from the heart, they’re the result of chemical reactions in the brain,” Mycroft murmured.

Greg smiled. “I know. But you feel it in your chest.” Greg kissed him again. Overawed, Mycroft could hardly move his lips in return. He felt stuck in a dream, the best dream, but he was afraid he might wake up any second. Greg studied him for a moment. “Tell me what it is.”

Mycroft shook his head. “I can’t.”

“Mycroft,” Greg warned. “Don’t shut down on me now.”

“My mind’s racing.”

Greg took hold of Mycroft’s hands, lifting them up to his face. He felt Greg’s cheeks with trembling hands, stroked his skin, his stubble, let his thumb drift across his lips. His heart continued to race and he couldn’t even work out how many days of stubble it was, or how long it had been since they’d last touched like this.

Greg guided him to bed - to their bed. And Mycroft couldn’t stop feeling his face in his hands, disbelieving, overwhelmed. _The rest of their lives_... For months, if he was honest, he hadn’t allowed himself to believe that was still possible. Had he ever thought it was possible, that Greg might stay, despite the lies? Perhaps only when he managed to delude himself. But Greg was still here, and staying, or so it seemed.

He had never needed to be so close to him. To feel every inch of him as though perhaps this, _this_ was the last time. He was afraid he had already forgotten the last time. The last time they’d kissed… it had only been minutes ago, but it felt too long already.

And he was still so scared for Sherlock. Afraid that after all of it, it could be stripped away from him. No, he couldn’t think that way.

He unbuttoned Greg’s shirt, their foreheads pressed together. Greg stripped off his own clothes, all the while reaching out for Mycroft when he could, touching his cheek and his shoulder. He took hold of Mycroft’s hands, pressing them to his bare chest.

Mycroft’s eyes met his. “It’s alright,” Greg soothed. “You take all the time you need.”

Mycroft pressed their lips together. He couldn’t get close enough as he kissed him, deepening it, his heart still pounding away, his nerves frayed. Inside, he was shaking. “I don’t understand,” Mycroft said, dropping his hands. “You shouldn’t be here.”

Greg raised his eyebrows. “Where exactly should I be?”

“I betrayed you in some of the very worst ways.”

“I know,” Greg said. “Come on now.” He touched Mycroft’s forehead with three fingers. “Shut it down. Do this one thing for me.”

Greg pushed Mycroft’s jacket off, and then undid his cufflinks, those meteorite ones Greg had got him for his birthday. He hadn’t been able to take them off since then. His waistcoat was removed next, and then his tie and finally his shirt, and it eased him a little, making him feel a little less restricted. Mycroft sat in silence, letting himself be undressed. He didn’t know what to say or what to do. Greg wasn’t supposed to be here still, he thought. He was so sure Greg would leave.

Greg took Mycroft’s face in his hands. “Come on,” Greg whispered. “This is me. It’s you. The world doesn’t end when your brain switches off. You’re scaring me. I need you to come back to me now.”

Greg rested his right hand over Mycroft’s heart. Mycroft returned the gesture, spreading his fingers over his chest.

“The world ends when you’re not there,” Mycroft admitted, averting his eyes. “I thought. I thought I knew you would leave. That it would end.” He winced. “People are such fools. Letting these emotions dictate their lives.”

“The world didn’t end,” Greg said. “Because I was always here.” Mycroft lifted his head. “For God’s sake,” Greg muttered, cupping Mycroft’s head and pulling him close and crushing their mouths together.

Mycroft let out a sound of surprise before surrendering to Greg’s possessive kisses, as Greg tugged him closer until Mycroft was straddling his thighs. They kissed until they were breathless, and even then, it wasn’t enough.

Greg yanked off Mycroft’s trousers and underwear, still kissing him with a desperation Mycroft hardly recognised. Mycroft heard his own needy gasps shared between their mouths, the thoughts running around his head coming to an abrupt stop as he gave himself up to his body’s desires.

Greg urged him on, handing him the lubricant and spreading his legs. “Please, please,” Greg breathed out, nipping at Mycroft’s bottom lip. “I need to feel you.”

Mycroft answered with his fingers, pressing the first inside him as Greg pushed down to meet him. Greg rocked his hips, moving against his finger. “Yeah,” he urged, one hand curling around the back of Mycroft’s head. “More, love, more.”

He pushed in another finger and met Greg’s lips with his own, moving his hand eagerly, while Greg pleaded for more against his mouth.

Minutes later and Mycroft was pushing inside him, lips parted, eyes squeezed shut while Greg let out a breathy groan. Mycroft opened his eyes to see his lover with his head arched back, throat exposed, as he accepted Mycroft’s cock inside him. Mycroft stilled and they held each other’s eyes. For a moment, Mycroft couldn’t breathe.

“Switch it off,” Greg growled, gripping Mycroft’s hair and pulling him down for a frenetic kiss.

He went slowly for a thrust or two, then gave in to sheer need, wanting to take everything from him, wanting to lose himself in Greg. Greg’s nails dug into his back as he moved with him, begging for him, biting and kissing Mycroft’s neck.

“You’re going to come for me,” Greg whispered against his neck. “C’mon, Mycroft, Mycroft, love. God, you’re so good.” He bit Mycroft’s neck. Mycroft’s orgasm hit him in an instant, and he felt Greg’s own release spill between their stomachs.

The next moments were full of heavy breaths, before they collapsed beside each other.

“Yeah?” Greg asked.

“Mm. Yes. Silent.”

Greg pulled Mycroft to his chest, and kissed the top of his head. “Good,” he said, some tension still in his voice. And then he stroked Mycroft’s hair, and kissed his lips again. Mycroft looked up at him, studying him. Greg managed a half smile. “Lie down. Relax with me for a bit.”

Somehow, remarkably, Mycroft managed to.

* * *

 

“What do we know?” Mycroft asked as he sat down with MI5’s Nadia Swift, ignoring the hustle and bustle of analysts typing away on their computers in the large, open-plan office.

“Very little,” she said, handing a file over to him. “Everything is in there. As you can see, it isn’t a lot.”

Mycroft began to flick through the papers. “Most of this intelligence… it’s brief, at best.” He raised his eyebrows at her. “It doesn’t exactly point to a specific terrorist plot, does it?”

“No.”

“Are you sure it’s all connected?”

“No.”

“And you want me to take this? You and your staff are more than capable.”

“I know that,” Nadia said. “I want some extra eyes, that’s all. See if we missed something. You can access as much of the intel as we can, if not more.”

“We have access to more communication traffic, yes,” Mycroft agreed. “But I’m beginning to find that it can be more like finding a needle in a haystack than providing us with more answers.” He closed the file. “Nonetheless, I’ll take this back and see what we can do.”

“Mycroft…” She led him to the side, her voice low. “We think something is being planned. We have agents undercover and some of them have… they have a feeling.”

“A feeling?” he echoed.

“They haven’t heard of a plot. But they suspect something. They’re just not close enough to get hold of the information.”

“Is it a big terrorist organisation?” Mycroft asked.

“No, it’s a smallish group which hasn’t committed a crime at all. There are no signs of anyone building a bomb. But like I said. Our agents are in deep and they have a feeling.”

Mycroft raised his eyebrows. “Feelings do not carry a lot of credibility,” he pointed out.

“Agents are on the line.”

“Possibly.”

Nadia shot him a wry smile. “You have plenty of people who can take a look at this. So would you be so kind?”

“Of course,” Mycroft agreed. When he got back to the Coeur de Lion Offices, he deposited the files on Mads’ desk. “These are for you,” Mycroft told him. “Nadia Swift wanted a fresh pair of eyes on the case.”

“Me, sir?” Mads asked, looking up at him with round, hopeful eyes.

“It’s all yours, and you report to me when you have more information.” Mycroft looked around the office to some of the new agents he had recently recruited. “Ask some of them to look for more intelligence for you. They are working under you.”

Mycroft made an effort to get home on time every night, for Greg was still on edge, and the last thing Mycroft wanted to do was cause him more unhappiness. For the most part, they were settled, though Greg's temper flared on occasion. Mycroft understood it. Though often he rose to it himself, as his concerns about Sherlock deepened, though he knew he had no right to take it out on Greg.

A few evenings later, he made them both dinner while he simultaneously watched the details of a raid on the terrorists’ home pop up on his laptop in real-time. Mads had collected some vital information, and he had joined the police on what had proved to be some successful arrests. Mycroft and Greg ended up eating their pasta while watching as the terrorism police updated their reports.

“This shouldn’t be as entertaining as it is,” Greg grinned as the next sentences popped up on the screen. He frowned for a moment and looked back up at Mycroft. “Wait, can you read my reports while I’m writing them?”

“I suppose I could,” Mycroft replied with a tentative smile. “But er…”

“My reports aren’t interesting enough for you, huh?”

“I don’t tend to pay any attention to murders, no. Unless you’re talking about them at home with me, of course.”

Greg grinned. “Okay, I'll let you off. Sally and Sam have invited us for dinner tomorrow night.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah. Just a quiet one, the four of us. I told Sally probably yes. Is that alright?”

“I’m sure that’s fine,” Mycroft agreed. “But are you certain it’s wise?”

Greg narrowed his eyes. “Why?”

“Well, spending a lot of time with her. In light of… events.”

“Because she doesn’t know about Sherlock, you mean.”

“Yes.”

Greg shrugged. “I haven’t told her. I’m not going to tell her while Sherlock’s still not home. I’m not a total idiot.”

“Right.” Mycroft returned to his dinner. “Sorry.”

“I’m avoiding Anderson though,” Greg admitted. “The bloke is in such a bad way. And he knows the truth. I know he’s right, and yet he’s pretty much destroyed his career by telling the truth. I can’t go round to Bart’s, because I can’t look Molly in the eye. Because it kills me that she knew, and it also kills me that I can’t tell her I know now too, so we can share it together. I sent Leon to Speedy’s in the hope Mrs Hudson might be there, and he can report back how she is. As for John…”

“John is… John’s doing better,” Mycroft said. “His girlfriend has moved into his flat. He’s getting on with his life.”

“Until Sherlock blusters in and thinks everything is the same as he left it.”

Mycroft raised his eyebrows. “Sherlock knows things have changed.”

“Does he?” Greg asked. “I don’t know, Mycroft. Sherlock expects stuff to be a certain way. He won’t like to come back to find out everyone has been just fine without him and moved on with their lives.”

“But they haven’t, have they?” Mycroft said softly. “Things haven’t been just fine. People have adapted, yes, because they’ve had to. But have any of us truly moved on?”

“Some of us were able to live like nothing happened,” Greg pointed out.

“Meaning me?”

“Who else?”

Mycroft sighed. “It doesn’t mean I’ve not had my own concerns. Sherlock’s drug use, for example.”

“Well… faking your death and losing everything is enough to push any man to the limit.”

“I suppose so,” Mycroft agreed. “Greg, I…”

Greg held his hands up. “I’m done talking about this. Let’s just…” He rose from the table and collected their empty plates, carrying them to the sink. “I’ll wash up.”

Mycroft stood too. “I’ll dry.”

“No. Just watch your terrorism plot. I’m going to go for a walk.”

Mycroft bit his lip. He watched Greg for a few moments as he waited for the sink to fill, his back to him. His shoulders were tense, arms folded over his chest. Mycroft longed to walk over and rub his back, to kiss the side of his neck in that place he liked, to tell him he was sorry until Greg could do nothing but forgive him.

Instead, he collected his laptop and took it to the living room to watch events unfold. Greg stayed up late watching television once he got back from his walk and refused to join Mycroft when he went to bed. He lay there alone in the dark, listening to the faint chatter from the television as he fidgeted.

When Greg finally joined him, Mycroft lay still and silent, wishing Greg’s body would press against his and he could whisper his apologies to him then. But Greg kept to his side of the bed. Somehow, Mycroft fell asleep.

* * *

Mads was already in Mycroft’s office when he arrived at work the next morning, his tie askew and his shirt crumpled. He flashed Mycroft a tired smile.

“Have you even slept?” Mycroft asked as Anthea walked in with a tray of hot drinks.

Mads groaned. “No,” he said, running a hand through his unruly hair. He shrugged and held out a memory stick. “Present for you.”

Mycroft raised one eyebrow and took it from him and turned on his laptop. “Is this safe to plug into my laptop?” he asked.

Mads paused. “I didn’t think of that.”

“That’s why Mr Holmes is the boss,” Anthea said with a reassuring smile. “Do you want an air-gapped computer?”

Mycroft nodded to her. “Please.”

Anthea left them for a moment while Mycroft turned the memory stick in his hands. “How did you get this?” he asked.

“I grabbed it during the raid,” Mads explained.

“We shouldn’t withhold evidence from the police.” Mycroft paused for a moment. “But I suppose it was quick-thinking on your part,” he conceded, quietly pleased.

Anthea carried a new laptop in - an air-gapped computer, one never connected to the internet. They waited in silence while she turned it on, and Mycroft plugged the memory stick in. It was full of files, which took up nearly all the memory.

Indicating for Anthea to stand behind him, Mycroft began to open and print the documents. Mads stood by the printer, collecting the papers. “It’s… cricket scores,” he said. “Betting. Cricket betting.”

“Gambling?” Anthea asked. “On cricket?”

“It might be more than that,” Mycroft murmured, still opening documents. “They had bomb-making equipment, yes?”

“Yeah,” Mads said. “And bombs. And they’re all appearing in court later today.”

“Maybe the gambling is a separate business?” Anthea asked. “The bombs were rudimentary. They didn’t even have timers on. They would need to manually set them off.”

Mycroft sat back in his chair, looking up at her. “I thought they were planning a big attack. Nadia Swift said there were… conversations of something big.”

“There were,” Mads said. “And it all led to this building. All the talk, it led to that house. And we found the bombs.”

“They can still do a lot of damage with suicide bombers,” Anthea pointed out.

Mycroft frowned. “I just expected…” He clicked through the documents again, some of them hundreds of pages long, all filled with cricket scores. “This can’t be it. We’ll pass these to the analysts, maybe they’re hiding something.”

Anthea began collecting the papers from Mads. “What are you thinking?” she asked.

Mycroft frowned at the screen. “I don’t know.”

“We caught them,” Mads said. “Everything Nadia’s team was working on led to these terrorists.”

Mycroft yanked the memory stick out of the computer. He held it in front of his face. “This can’t be it,” he murmured.

“Perhaps the police have something else?” Anthea suggested. “Some evidence we don’t know about yet?”

“They’ve sent their initial reports to the Crime Prosecution Service already,” Mycroft informed her. “I’ve read the evidence lists. There was nothing else there. There were the bombs, and the men. There was no paperwork, beside bomb-making manuals.”

“Something on their phones?” Anthea suggested.

“They didn’t have any phones,” Mads said.

Mycroft shot his head up. “Terrorists without phones?”

“They didn’t have any computer equipment. The police looked everywhere. They couldn’t find anything.”

“They must have phones,” Mycroft said. “They must have got their instructions from somewhere, they have to have phones.”

“I’ll… I’ll go back to the house,” Mads said. “Maybe the police missed something.”

Mycroft nodded. “Yes,” he agreed, staring at his desk. The printer whirred as it stopped printing files. “Take one of Nadia’s agents with you when you go. And do not go until the police have left the scene. I trust they are still there?”

“Yes, sir,” Mads said.

“Then wait for now. They may still find something.”

* * *

He went to Sally and Sam’s flat straight from work, still unsettled by the day’s events. Sally greeted him with a kiss to his cheek and pressed a glass of wine into his hand. It was a small flat on the third floor, but the pictures and paintings on the walls made it feel inviting enough.

“Hey, Mycroft,” Sam grinned as Mycroft made his way to the living room. “Make yourself at home.”

Greg was already sat on one small sofa, and Mycroft took a seat beside him. They hadn’t spoken all day, and Mycroft felt the tension between them as he risked a look at his partner.

Sally smiled. “Let me check on dinner,” she said.

Sam pulled a face. “Oh God, this isn’t a good idea,” he muttered, following Sally out to the kitchen.

Greg laughed and then turned to Mycroft. He smiled. “Good day?” he asked.

“Average.” Mycroft paused. “Greg, I’m sorry. Last night...”

Greg waved his hand and leaned towards him, pressing a soft kiss to his lips. “It’s alright. My fault. I was being sensitive.”

“Still, I’m…”

Greg kissed him again, silencing him. “Wine, good company, dinner. That’s what’s happening tonight. And you’re going to stop saying sorry, and you’re going to have a nice time. Deal?”

Mycroft managed a smile. “Deal.”

Greg smiled back and wrapped an arm along the back of the settee. “So. You okay?”

Mycroft leaned back against his arm, smiling as it came to wrap around his shoulders. “I’m fine.”

“Fine as in ‘don’t ask’ or…”

“Fine, as in everything is fine.”

“And the PDA?”

Mycroft could not help but smile then. “Acceptable,” he said.

Greg grinned, squeezing Mycroft’s shoulder before sipping from his bottle of beer. “Good.” He nudged Mycroft shoulder with his own. “Daft sod,” he added affectionately. "I can't believe you've been thinking about this all day. You should have just text..."

“I’m leaving you to it!” Sally called to Sam as she hurried back into the living room, before Greg could finish what he was saying. She winced. “Apparently I’m getting in the way.”

“Sally can’t cook,” Greg explained to Mycroft. “She once blew up a microwave at work.”

She glared at him as she sunk into the settee opposite them both. “We made a deal, Lestrade.”

Greg grinned. “It was her first week, and…”

Sally cut him off. “I have stories about you I could tell. Plenty of them.”

“I can match you story for story.”

She folded her arms. “Are we fighting about this now?”

Mycroft chuckled, leaning against Greg’s side as he sipped his wine. “Ladies and gentlemen, the upstanding officers of the Metropolitan Police,” he joked.

They laughed as Sam joined them, squeezing in beside Sally. “If we’re telling stories on Lestrade, I’ve got heaps of ‘em,” he said.

Greg snorted into his beer. “No. No, no, we’re not telling stories.”

“Oh, c’mon, Lestrade. You have a history of fucking up press conferences.”

Greg groaned. “Oh, not that bloody ‘don’t commit suicide’ conference again. Haven’t I lived that one enough?”

“No, there’s worse than that,” Sally said, grinning. “Do you remember when there was a spate of robberies?”

Greg groaned. “No, no, Mycroft does not need to hear this story.”

“Yes, he certainly does,” Mycroft said, smiling. “Do tell.”

Sally chuckled to herself. “There were about six or seven robberies in the space of two weeks. And they were targeting sex shops. I mean, it was awful, really, it’s not funny, they were threatening the staff with weapons in broad daylight. And then Lestrade gave a press conference…”

Greg sighed. “In which I described them as ‘rampant thieves’.”

“And then suddenly this very serious press conference descended into hysterical laughter.”

Greg rolled his eyes. “And of course once everyone else started laughing, it was hard not to join in. And then, local press said we weren’t taking the robberies seriously enough and I got in trouble for giving a rubbish press conference. We caught ‘em though, in the end.”

“I think they enjoyed the cuffing far too much,” Sally added with a smirk.

Greg grinned and looked at Mycroft. “Sam once chased a bloke down the road when he was off-duty, caught him and then sat on him. Months later the bloke tried to sue the force, claiming he’d damaged his back.”

“I remember,” Sam said, rolling his eyes. “The jokes about my fat arse lasted at least a month.”

Mycroft smiled, lifting his hand to to absently stroke Greg’s fingers.

“Oh my god,” Sally said, laughing to herself. “Sam also had do deal with the story in the press about arresting a duck.”

Sam groaned. “I was trying to…” He sighed and looked at Mycroft as he began to explain. “Alright, so there was this kid at the park, and she’d been attacked by a duck. And I happened to be there, and this girl, she kept crying. So anyway, I walked up to the duck and gave it a bit of a talking-to and it stopped her from crying. Next thing I know, the video is on bloody YouTube and I’m having to explain why the Met goes around threatening to arrest ducks.”

“It made page three of the Metro,” Sally laughed.

“Yeah, it did,” Sam said seriously. “And this bloody lot picked up about 50 newspapers and taped that page all over my desk so when I came in it was all I could see.”

“And it was his screensaver,” Greg added.

“It was _all_ our screensavers,” Sally said.

“Yeah, ‘til someone dug out that picture of Lestrade from when he was policing New Year’s Eve one year.”

“You’ve not seen that, have you?” Greg asked Mycroft. “I was a pretty new officer then. And it was New Year’s Eve and I was on the beat in Soho. I ended up with some drunk girls begging to have a picture taken with me. So I agreed. It was a pretty fun night anyway, quite light-hearted. One of them slings a pink feather boa around my neck, and that’s the picture that ends up in the bloody Daily Mail. And Carter kept a copy of the paper, God knows why. So about 15 years later, he cleared his desk out and out comes the copy of the sodding article and the next thing I know, it’s been photocopied and stuck to every wall in the department.”

“You looked very fetching,” Sam told him, before winking.

“He was quite a looker,” Sally added.

“You’ll need to show me this picture,” Mycroft told him.

“Yeah, maybe.” Greg turned to him and grinned. “If you’re good.”

Sam laughed and stood up. “More wine,” he announced. “And food.”

Food turned out to be coq au vin and the lemon meringue pie. The laughter continued into the night, until Greg and Mycroft finally stumbled out and were driven home.

Their sex was slow and intense and wonderful. Later, they sat up together in bed with glasses of wine in bed, the covers over their laps.  

“So, come on,” Greg said. “Let me hear some of Sherlock’s adventures.”

Mycroft frowned. “Sherlock’s adventures?”

“Yeah. You must know what he’s been up to. I’m curious.”

“It’s classified, I’m afraid,” Mycroft murmured. “Only two people know the full extent of it, and I’m afraid that is myself and Sherlock. I’m unable to share any of the details.” If he even had details to tell, he thought to himself. In the past month, they'd barely said a word to each oter. He would know, Mycroft thought, if Sherlock were dead. He hoped so, at least.

“Yeah, but this is me. I’ve signed some of your national secret forms. You can trust me with anything.”

Mycroft sipped his wine. “Perhaps when he returns, I can share some of the superficial details.”

“Mycroft. C’mon. I thought he was dead for two years. At least fill in some of the gaps.”

“I can’t.”

Greg stared at him. “You don’t trust me. What the hell did I do to give you reason not to trust me?”

Mycroft turned to him, blinking. “Greg, please. I have always trusted you.”

“You used to tell me everything. You didn’t give a crap about your national security. You trusted me. What is it now? We’re too close so now you can’t tell me anything?”

Mycroft sighed. This was different, he thought. This was Sherlock. And yet the words did not quite come out as he intended. “As good a reason as any,” he said instead.

“You don’t, do you?” Greg said. “You don’t trust me. You think someone will tie me to a chair and torture me and I’ll spill my guts in five minutes.”

“No one knows how they will react under that kind of intense scrutiny.”

“Yeah, well, you do. You’ve lived it. Mycroft, I’d give my life for you and I wouldn’t say a single word about your secrets.”

“Will you stop this?” Mycroft snapped at him.

“Stop this?” Greg shook his head, pain etched on his face. “How the hell can I stop this? I don’t trust you, and you don’t trust me either. I mean, what are you going to do if some other Moriarty-type nutter comes along? Are you going to pretend to kill yourself and let me grieve for two years?”

Mycroft swallowed. “Greg-”

“And you know what, Mycroft, you have no idea what I went through when Sherlock died. The inquest and the grieving and nightmares. And you know why you didn’t know that? Because you were not there for me. And that was fine. I dealt with that. Now I find out you knew Sherlock wasn’t dead and you still let me go through all that by myself. You always told me you didn’t abandon me. But you did. You left me all by myself out there. Was that some part of the plan? That if I was suspended then it was clear it was the Met’s mistake? Was I some sort of proof that Sherlock really had killed himself?”

“It.” Mycroft sighed. He swallowed. “It helped, yes.”

“You have no idea how much that destroyed me,” Greg hissed at him. “You don’t know, because you weren’t there. You know who was there for me? My cheating, sodding ex-wife. Not the man I was in love with. It was Jane. She supported me through that when you sat in your Ivory Tower and let it happen.”

Mycroft stared down at the covers.

“Do you know what I did, Mycroft?” Greg continued. “How much I drank to forget all of it? Do you know what it’s like to think you betrayed someone so badly that they killed themselves? Because I do. And do you know what it’s like to think the person you love most in the entire world sat by and let that all happen when they could have stopped it? You could have just told me. Even if I had to go through that hearing, doing it knowing the truth would have been so, so much easier. I thought.” Greg smacked his hand down onto the mattress. “I thought I lost my job. I lost my friends. Sherlock, John, Sally. All of them. I lost you. I lost you forever. You always said trust was the most important thing to you. Well, you know what… I don’t trust you. I don’t think I can trust you again. So, what, for the love of God, is the point of all this?” Mycroft sat in silence staring down at his lap. “Come on,” Greg snarled.

“If that’s how you feel, then just go,” Mycroft finally snapped. _No_ , he thought, but Greg was already moving, getting out of bed and pulling his dressing gown on.

“I’ll start moving my stuff out tomorrow,” Greg said. “Christ, if you can’t even be bothered to say sorry…” Greg grabbed his phone and slammed the door shut behind him. Mycroft stared at it, glued to the spot, just completely numb.

How had something so good suddenly gone so wrong? Greg was going to start moving his things out in the morning. He clenched his hands in the covers. _Make it right_ , he told himself. _Just get out of bed and make it right_. For a while though, he could not move. He just stared at the door, expecting Greg to come back and join him and perhaps shout at him some more, but at least he would return so Mycroft could apologise…

It was never going to get back to good so quickly, Mycroft reminded himself. He expected too much of Greg. Perhaps he expected too much of the both of them.

Gathering his thoughts, he rose from the bed, reaching a hand out to steady himself. Too much blasted wine. He put on his dressing gown and took a deep breath.

Then his phone rang. With an agitated sigh, he grabbed it. “Yes?” he snapped.

“Sir. It’s Anthea.”

“This better be…”

“It’s Mads,” she said. “He’s in hospital. He needs surgery. But he won’t go in until…”

Mycroft sunk back down onto the bed. “What happened?”

“He went to get the phone from the terrorists’ house. But there was an explosion and… He won’t go into surgery until you see him, sir.”

Mycroft rubbed his face. “I need a car.”

“Jim is on his way.”

“Is Mads…”

“He is burned, and he has lost an arm.” Anthea’s voice was steady, but Mycroft could hear the deep, deep sorrow in it. It always hurt worse when it was one of their own.

Mycroft took a deep breath. “Anything else?” he asked.

“One of Nadia Swift’s agents is dead.”

Mycroft closed his eyes. They weren’t one of his own, yet he felt it just the same. “I’ve had some wine this evening,” he murmured.

“There should be some water in the car. Jim always keeps bottles with him.”

“Right. Why is Jim driving?” Mycroft asked.

“Security measure,” Anthea explained. “We’re not taking any chances. The police were at that house all day, Mads only went this evening. They must have known he would go back.”

Mycroft frowned. “I need to get dressed.”

“I’ll be at the hospital, sir,” Anthea said, before hanging up.

Mycroft did not give himself time to come to terms with what had happened. He dressed quickly. Before he left, he shot one brief look at the door to the spare bedroom. He could only hope Greg would stay there long enough for Mycroft to see him and explain, before he left for good.

Jim Braum was already parked outside Crusader House when Mycroft stepped out into the crisp air. He got into the car and drank deeply from the bottle of water waiting for him on the backseat.

“Amazing what they can do with prosthetics,” Jim commented as he turned the radio off. “I mean, I do alright for a bloke with one leg. Mads'll be fine. No worries.”

Mycroft hummed his agreement, picking at the label on the bottle.

He met Anthea by the doors to the hospital, and she led him to Mads’ room. The burns were not as bad as Mycroft was expecting, but he was shaking, staring down at where his right arm once had been.

“You have two minutes,” the doctor said. “Then he’s going to surgery.”

Mycroft took a seat beside the bed. “You should be listening to your doctors,” he murmured to Mads. “Not waiting for-”

“-No time,” Mads whispered, wincing as though each word hurt him. He opened his left hand. A mobile phone rested on his palm. “I got it before the explosion.”

Mycroft carefully took it from him, pocketing it. “Did you see anything else?” he asked.

“No.” Mads swallowed. He sniffed. “I’m not any use to you like…”

Mycroft cut him off. “You’ll be back working for me in no time.” He looked up as the doctor entered the room. “Do what the doctors say, Mads. That’s an order.”

“Yes, sir,” Mads whispered, closing his eyes and letting the doctor cover his mouth with the oxygen mask.

Mycroft waited as Mads was wheeled to surgery, before meeting Anthea outside the door. “I told him to go back to the house,” Mycroft said as he took the phone back out of his pocket. “I hope it was worth it.”

“You had no reason to know,” she said softly. 

Mycroft bit his lip, frowning. He turned the phone around in his hands and then pressed the on switch. It went straight to the home-screen, without needing a password. He frowned, uncertain. He went to the messages, and opened the first. He narrowed his eyes at the words. “This is all written in… Serbian, I think,” he muttered, frowning. “I didn’t know the terrorists were…” He glanced at Anthea. “They weren’t European though, were they? They weren’t Serbian. This isn’t their phone.” He kept scrolling through the texts, understanding some words, unsure about others. “So it was planted there after. As well as the bomb…”

He kept scrolling through the texts. The messages were from the past 24 hours, but they did not seem to make any sense. But when he got to the picture, the only picture in that string of messages, he knew exactly what that showed. He knew that coat anywhere. He felt as though he had been punched in the gut. “They have Sherlock,” he whispered, leaning back against the wall. He dropped his head backwards and closed his eyes. His mouth was dry. Anthea caught the phone befpre it clattered to the floor. “They have Sherlock,” he repeated.

And somewhere down the line, he realised he must have made a potentially deadly error.  


	70. The Mission

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings ahoy, because stuff happens in this chapter. There are references to human trafficking, and also violence, lots of it, and deaths and torture and all that gory stuff which happens in Mycroft's universe.
> 
> I also loved writing this chapter. Sorry, not sorry. I hope it's not too painful to read! Much love to all the people still reading this madness.

**October 2013.**

**Location: Heathrow Airport, London.**

It was with some reluctance that Mycroft handed his umbrella over to Anthea and then shoved his hands into his pockets, at a loss for what else to do with them. “Anything else?” he asked.

“Speak up, sir,” she said, raising her voice over the rumble of the aeroplane’s engine.

“What else do I need?” he repeated, raising his voice.

She reached into her pocket and took out a pot with his medication inside.

“No,” Mycroft said. “I need to think clearly.”

She crossed her arms. “You’re not going to be able to think clearly on the ‘plane, whether you take these or not. But I advise you to take them, so you won’t get more anxious than you are already.”

“I’m not anxious.”

She tucked the pot into his pocket beside his hand. “Take them.” Anthea looked over at Jim. “Make sure he does.”

“Not my job to babysit, Anth,” Jim said with a shrug. “It’s up to to the boss if he takes ‘em or not.”

“You’re a bloody nightmare, Jim Braum,” she scolded. She turned back to Mycroft. “Are you sure you don’t want me to come with you?”

“I’m sure. Someone has to hold down the fort here.”

“Is there anything else I need to know?”

“No. We’ve covered most of it.” Mycroft frowned. “Except Greg," he added. "I want our full security measures on him. I don’t care if it’s invasive. I just need…”

Anthea touched his shoulder. “It’s in hand. He’ll be fine.”

Mycroft frowned. “I need to call him.”

Anthea sighed and then handed his phone back to him. “Don’t get on that ‘plane unless you’ve given that phone back to me,” she said, before stepping back inside the waiting room, leading Jim with her.

When he was finally alone, Mycroft pulled his gloves off and called Greg. He listened to the rings with his eyes closed as he wondered if he would ever answer. _Please don’t let me leave like this_ , he willed. He startled as Greg’s voice replaced the endless trilling.

“Lestrade,” he answered, his voice clipped and angry.

“Greg.” Mycroft bit his bottom lip and opened his eyes to look at the aeroplane. “I’m afraid I’m going to be away for a few weeks,” he said.

“What’s happening?”

“I’m retrieving Sherlock from his captors.”

“Cap-” Greg paused. “Captains?”

Mycroft frowned. “Captains? Oh. People are with you, I see. Well-caught. Yes, he’s got himself into some difficulty.”

“Is he alright?” Greg asked.

Mycroft turned away from the aeroplane, gripping the rail beside him. He swallowed. “I hate to leave on such bad terms," he said, ignoring the question, knowing he did not know the answer. "But I hope you will continue to think of Crusader House as your home and will wait until I return until making any… decisions affecting our long-term future. I know it’s a lot to ask.”

Silence reigned on the other end of the line. Mycroft counted every second, each of them endless, every beat of his heart telling him Greg would not wait. That they had said their last goodbyes.

“Just be safe,” Greg finally said. “Just be safe and come back home to me.”

Mycroft steadied his breath. “Very well.” He swallowed. The aeroplane’s engine rumbled behind him, and he wondered if it would bring him back again. “I love you with all of my heart,” he told Greg. “I am so sorry.”

“I love you too,” Greg said. “Just come home to me, Mycroft.”

“I will,” Mycroft promised in return, though the smallest part of him doubted it. He gripped the phone, listening to Greg’s breaths. He turned to look at the aeroplane, to where the pilot was climbing into the cockpit. “I need to go,” Mycroft finally said.

“I love you,” Greg told him again.

“I love you,” Mycroft whispered back in return. “I will call if I can. Talk soon.” He hung up and closed his eyes. Moments later, Anthea was taking the phone from him.

“He’ll be okay,” she promised. “So will you.”

“Look after him,” Mycroft murmured to her, knowing she would do everything she could. Whether that was enough was another question entirely. He made his way onto the aeroplane, Jim Braum and Jolana Pieczynski following him and taking their seats.

Mycroft reached into his coat pocket and took out his medication. Frowning, he shoved the pot back into his coat and stuffed that in the overhead locker. Jim caught his eye but did not say anything. Mycroft sunk into his chair and did his seatbelt up.

The morning had gone by in a blur. There had been Mads, and the hospital, then Sherlock’s coat… And then there had been nothing. Well, it had been frantic checking and desperate phone calls but to no avail. And now he was en-route to Serbia, Jim Braum as his security, Jolana to translate where she could, and Cliff Crenshaw to wield a weapon to the best of his ability.

Mycroft closed his eyes as the aeroplane took off, hands gripping the armrests. As the ‘plane levelled out, he took out his Serbian phrasebook and began to read it. It was impossible to concentrate, just as Anthea had warned him it would be. He glanced around to see Jim stretched out a few rows behind him, a can of diet coke in one hand, and for all appearances as casual as could be. But his eyes were alert and watchful.

“Jim,” Mycroft called to him. He gestured to the seat beside him. “Sit with me for a while, will you?”

“Sure, boss,” Jim replied, stretching his arms out and moving across the aisle to take the seat.

Mycroft stayed quiet, flicking through the pages of his book before giving up and putting it away. “I don’t know what happens when we land,” he finally admitted.

Jim shrugged. “Easy answer. We find your brother.”

Mycroft stared blankly at the back of the chair in front of him. “Or we find his body.”

Jim stayed silent, fiddling with the tab on his coke can until the metal snapped off. “I half expected we’d find your brother’s body a hundred times over,” he finally said. “That we’d find him with some needle shoved in his neck or something. We never did, ‘cause he’s smarter than he looks.”

“Sherlock thinks he looks rather smart," Mycroft pointed out.

Jim snorted. “Fancy clothes don’t make someone look smart. He’s a pretty man, your brother. He looks like the sort of bloke who’d break a thousand hearts, but who is as dumb as they come.”

“Then why won’t we find his body?”

“Because he’s not actually dumb, and he can take care of himself better than anyone.”

“They have him,” Mycroft reminded him.

Jim hummed. “No, they have his coat. He could have lost that anywhere. Hell, he could have dumped it somewhere for all we know. Now he’s layin’ low with Ed Palfrey and the two of ‘em will crop up, right as rain.”

“Or…”

“Or they’re dead and we’re walking right into someone’s trap.”

Mycroft narrowed his eyes, considering what that scenario would mean. “That requires a lot of assumptions,” he said eventually.

“Yeah?”

“Yes. We have to assume they know who Sherlock is. That they know who I am. That they know what I do. That they know I'm worthy of being trapped."

“Sure,” Jim agreed.

Mycroft licked his lips. “I’ve missed something. Something big.”

“Yeah, probably,” Jim agreed, perfectly casual. Mycroft shot him a look and Jim sighed. “Oh, c’mon, boss. D’you really think you can keep track of every little thing? You’re a genius, but you’re also human and humans are flawed and fucking idiots at times.”

“Not when it comes to Sherlock.”

Jim grinned. “Especially when it comes to Sherlock. I mean, you know he’s a dick at times, but you let it slide because he’s your brother. And you think you’ve got to wrap him in cotton wool and save him from himself. But you know, that’s not really your job. When you’re dealing with Sherlock, you forget something huge.”

“And what’s that?”

“That he’s Sherlock Holmes, and he is a dick at times, but he is _Sherlock Holmes_. He’s your blood and if anyone can talk themselves out of a sticky mess, it’s him. It’s a family trait.”

“But if he’s been caught…”

“Then maybe we have to assume he’s exactly where he wants to be.”

Mycroft bit his lip. “I hadn’t considered that.”

“Yeah, guessed as much,” Jim said. He downed the rest of his coke. “A few hours ago, all you had was a picture of his coat. All we’ve still got is a picture of his coat, only now Loretta’s also booked us a ‘plane and a house.”

“I asked you to sit with me to…”

“To what?” Jim cut in. “To talk sweet in your ear and tell you it’ll be okay? I grew out of that years ago. You didn’t promote me for my tact.”

“No,” Mycroft agreed.

“I’ve killed for you,” Jim told him. “I’ve got a little girl back at home, and she’s not my little girl, but she’s good as. I’ll adopt her, eventually, soon as her good-for-nothing dad lets me. And d’you think I find it easy to live with myself knowing the things I know, having done the things I’ve done? If I could, I’d just leave you and go and get myself another chauffeur job, driving around posh actors and stuff.”

Mycroft shot him a look. “Then why don’t you?”

“Because I’ve got a little girl, and at least when I kill some bastard who’s threatening you then I think I’ve made the world a bit safer for her.”

“How old is she?” Mycroft asked.

“She’s 12.”

“You don’t talk about her.”

“No. Because she and her mum are my world, and I can’t blur the lines between that and this shit I do for you. I think…” Jim looked away. “Well. You scare me sometimes.”

“Sometimes I scare myself.”

“Yeah, I know. That’s one of the reasons I still stick around. I figure if you didn’t doubt yourself, you’d be as bad as that Moriarty bloke was. I think you own everything, Mr Holmes. Have everything. But you try to use it for good, so… so I stick around.”

“Sherlock was dismantling Moriarty’s web,” Mycroft murmured, sitting back in his chair and lacing his hands together in his lap. “I thought Sebastian Moran, his right hand man, knew Sherlock was still alive. And if he did know that…”

“D’you reckon he’s put a bounty on Sherlock’s head?”

“Yes,” Mycroft whispered. “Yes, I do. Fine, let’s consider a new scenario. Moriarty dies. His crime network starts to fall apart, but Moran tries his best to hold it together. But he is no Moriarty, and though Moran is feared, he is still just one man. Moran has a theory Sherlock is still alive.”

“So he puts a bounty on Sherlock’s head and tells people to track him and find him.”

“And so when they do…”

“They won’t kill him,” Jim finished. “Moran’ll want him alive, right? ‘Cause if Moran’s carried on Moriarty’s network then Moran will want to use Sherlock to prove a point.”

“To prove he’s the kingpin. To prove he really is the man in charge.”

“Then Sherlock’s still alive,” Jim finished. “And we’ll find him. You should take your pills. Try to get some sleep. We’ll need your brain when we land.”

“Yes,” Mycroft agreed, not protesting when Jim reached into the overhead lockers and rummaged around for the tablets. Mycroft swallowed them and closed his eyes and allowed himself to drift.

* * *

The two-storey house was surrounded by miles of countryside, its driveway a muddy beaten-track off the road. Jim parked around the back, and he and Cliff headed inside to check it was secure. From the car, Mycroft eyed the security cameras around the perimeter.

Jim and Cliff joined them five minutes later and all four of them carried suitcases and boxes indoors. Cliff made them all tea with powdered milk, and Jim lit some candles. They stayed together in the open-plan living area, composed of two settees, a round table with wooden three chairs and a sparse kitchen. The curtains remained closed, and Jim would not budge on his decision not to turn on the lights.

“What is this, exactly?” Jolana asked as she stood by the table, a map spread over it.

“It’s owned by the British Government,” Mycroft told her. “We had a few British spies here during the Bosnian War.”

Cliff dumped a bag onto the table, sending dust up into the air. Jolana coughed and pulled a face at him. “I was trying to read the map,” she muttered.

Cliff ignored her, unzipping the pack and taking out four boxes containing their mobile phones. The first of them anyway, for they had a large supply of cheap burner phones. He handed them around. Mycroft slipped a SIM-card inside. Jim remained standing by the door, fingers twitching at his side.

The laptops came out next, and Jolana carried one over to a well-worn settee. Mycroft rubbed his eyes.

“You should get some sleep, boss,” Jim said. “Let us set up here.”

Too tired to do anything but agree, Mycroft hauled himself to his feet. “Which room?” he asked.

“Up the stairs and second left. It’s not the biggest room, but it’s the one I want you in.”

“Fine,” Mycroft agreed, picking up his suitcase and a torch. The stairs creaked underfoot as he found his way to his room. He lit several candles. The room smelt musty and of burning dust as the radiator came to life for the first time in months, perhaps years. There was a single bed in the corner of the room with a cabinet beside it, and a dark-wood cupboard with a door missing and a safe inside.

Mycroft had very little to hide inside the safe. He had left all personal items behind him, but he did stow some cash away before lying down on his back on the bed, feeling the springs in the mattress.

He blew out the candles, closed his eyes, and, still aided by his medication, he was asleep in minutes.

* * *

It was still dark outside when he woke, and it took him a few seconds to get his bearings. He used a torch to light his way to the bathroom, where he showered under lukewarm water. When he went downstairs, he found the rest of his team were already up and dressed, Cliff preparing bacon and eggs while Jim watched a laptop with CCTV footage on it. He had his bacon sandwich half-way to his mouth as he watched the laptop, his prosthetic leg propped up on the table beside him. Jolana sat on the floor, her back to the wall and knees pulled up to her chest as she loaded the guns spread out on a rug in front of her.

Mycroft sunk into a chair at the table, muttering his thanks as his breakfast was put down in front of him. His stomach rumbled as he tucked in, the bacon crisp and the eggs well-cooked. “My compliments to the chef,” he said. Cliff grunted and jogged back upstairs. Mycroft shifted in his seat, craning his neck to watch him go. “What’s going on?” he asked.

“Cliff and I are going for a walk around and a trip into some town,” Jolana informed him. “You’re staying here with Jim.”

Jim flashed him a smile. “It should give you some time to get a plan together,” he said.

“Right,” Mycroft muttered. “I think I need to improve my Serbian first.”

“We’ll practice when Cliff and I get back,” Jolana said, springing to her feet and stretching. She handed a gun to him. “Do you know how to handle a weapon?”

Mycroft took it from her, raising his eyebrows. “Yes. You are not my childminder, Jolana.”

She shrugged. “We haven’t got a mission yet, so protecting you is all I’ve got to do. So let me do it, sir.”

After Cliff and Jolana left, Mycroft settled himself on the settee with his Serbian phrasebook. Jim remained on the laptop.

The sun had begun to set when Anthea called him. Mycroft excused himself and went to his bedroom. “Sorry about that,” he said as he closed the door. “Jim doesn’t want phone calls to last longer than 30 seconds and he’s being over-protective.”

“Then I’ll be quick,” she replied. “Your brother is alive. He got a communication to us 10 minutes ago.”

Mycroft let out a relieved breath. “What did he say?”

“They’re still after him. They still have Edward Palfrey. Your brother had to ditch his phone, or they’d be able to track him.”

“Do we know who caught him?”

“A gang connected to the Pink Panthers gang. Your brother suspects they’re a break-out group, living as far away from the cities as possible to avoid detection.”

“Then he won’t be able to escape.”

“I doubt it,” Anthea agreed. “They’ll have cars, he’s on foot, without communication and in the middle of nowhere. He thinks there’s a bounty on his head.”

“I suspect the same.”

“Moran?” Anthea asked.

“Yes.”

Anthea hummed. “Your brother thinks they’re going to keep him alive. That they’ll try to work out who he is, and once they know, they’ll threaten to kill him so they can extort even more money from whoever is after him. So far, they don’t know who he is.”

“And we need to get him out. Can you work out where he is?”

“We’re trying to track his phone now. He buried it somewhere, but it’s still on, so we can track the signal. If we can’t, I’ll send the details to Jolana so she can. She’s pretty good at that stuff.”

“Fine,” Mycroft agreed.

“I’ll send everything to Jim in five minutes. He needs to get full levels of encryption up, does he know how to do that?”

“Yes, he does.”

“We taught him well,” Anthea mused. “One other thing. We’ve found more files on the phone Mads got from the terrorists’ home. We’re trying to decrypt the files, but it’s tough going.”

“Keep me informed.

“I’ll try. Throw this phone away.”

“Yes. Thank you, Anthea.”

“Stay safe, sir,” she replied, before hanging up.

Mycroft slid the SIM card out of the phone and flushed it down the toilet. He joined Jim downstairs and they waited for the documents to arrive from Anthea. They were pouring over them when Cliff and Jolana returned, carrying bags of food and clothes. They sat together to go through the details while Cliff cooked them spaghetti and meatballs.

Mycroft spent several hours practising his Serbian with Cliff and Jolana, before going to bed.

* * *

In the morning, they finally traced the signal from Sherlock’s phone. It was in a forest at the base of the Rudnik Mountain.

“There’s an abandoned mining village there,” Jolana explained, zooming in on the map on her laptop. She pointed to her screen. “Here.”

“That makes sense,” Jim said. “It’s miles away from anywhere, no one will go that deep into the forest. If they betrayed the Pink Panthers, then they’re wanted by police, Interpol and the Serbian Mafia, right? So, they’ve got to hide their arses pretty well.”

“How far away are we from there?” Mycroft asked.

“About 70 miles.”

“Right then.” Mycroft stood up and collected his coat. “Off we go.”

Jim stared at him, incredulous. “Oh right? Yeah? We’re gonna get in our car, drive into the territory of a load of murderers and thieves and kidnappers, sneak in, grab Sherlock and leave? Is that right?”

Mycroft tutted. “We’re going to investigate how many men they have. Assess their supplies, and, if we can, connect to their mobile phones so we can follow them. Is that possible?”

“It’s possible,” Jolana said. “If we had a death wish. We _may_ be able to get close enough to see how many men they have. If we _could_ somehow get a phone without being shot, we _could_ download some malware onto it so we can take control. But… we have to get close enough to someone to do that, and return a phone without them noticing.”

“They can’t stay at the compound all day, surely?” Jim said. “I mean, what are they doing the rest of the time? They’ve got to make money somehow.”

“Where’s the closest village?” Mycroft asked.

Jolana checked the map. “Ljubičevac. It has a population of around 80 people.”

“Small enough for a wanted criminal to hide in?” Mycroft asked.

She hummed. “I’d say so.”

“Does it have a bar?” Jim asked.

She looked it up. “It does,” she announced. “Inside what is described as a hotel, but looks more like the bed and breakfast from hell. It’s about an hour away from the mountain, half an hour from the mining village.”

“We’ll find someone there,” Mycroft decided. “At the very least, we can start putting our ears to the ground.”

“Still,” Jim said, cautious. “We should…”

“I need to get out of here,” Mycroft snapped. “I need to do something. Every hour we sit doing nothing is another hour for Sherlock to be found and then tortured. You wanted a mission, Jolana? This is the mission. To extract Sherlock Holmes, and Edward Palfrey if he is still alive. So we go to Ljubičevac tonight.”

They all exchanged a look. Jim finally shrugged. “Alright then. But we’re not leavin’ until we all know how this is gonna work and have at least five ways of getting it out of trouble.”

* * *

The bar smelt of smoke and stale alcohol. Mycroft ventured in with Cliff, who went to the bar for them both. Mycroft analysed the room, his eyes immediately landing on Jim who had gone inside an hour earlier. He was sat by the door, his head bowed as he stared into an empty glass. He did not look like a man to mess with with his scarred cheek and jumper clinging to well-muscled arms.

Jolana was sat by the piano, playing some tune Mycroft did not recognise. The barman, and two patrons at the bar, were leering openly at her.

Mycroft took a seat in the corner. Another man with a tattoo on his neck sat at the far end of the bar, dressed in black jeans and an ill-fitting t-shirt. It was warm inside, but not warm enough to forgo a jacket, Mycroft thought, studying him.

Cliff carried over two glasses of the Serbian drink rakia. “I’ve booked two rooms for the night,” Cliff said in Serbian as he sat down. He had been so silent the past few days, Mycroft had forgotten how his voice sounded, like velvet, roughened after years of smoking.

“And how much does that set us back?” Mycroft asked back in Serbian. He did not listen to the answer. He watched as Jolana closed the piano lid, wandering to the bar. She leaned against her, her breasts pressing against the oak.

“Get back to playing, woman,” one of the leering men called to her.

She stuck up her middle finger, to raucous laughter from the man’s companion. She ordered another drink and took it to the piano, sitting down to play again. Mycroft almost believed she really was that person, a lonely woman dressing too young for her age, whiling away the hours playing music for men who saw her body and little else. He would have believed it, if he hadn’t seen her loading guns only that morning.

Jim Braum looked primed to kill, Mycroft thought, as he hunched over his drink. Mycroft was sure he had never seen him appear so agitated. He wasn’t entirely sure if it was an act or if Jim was still certain this move was going to get them all killed.

Then there was Cliff, chatting amiably in Serbian, as though it was his first language. He even smiled, though it cracked through his face and did not reach his eyes. He had been a court translator once. He had spoken on behalf of victims, explaining to the court how their lives had been shattered by the actions of criminals. Mycroft could not reconcile the man who had once spoken so eloquently and compassionately with the person who now barely said a word and did not care for courtesies.

Mycroft and Cliff had dressed as travelling salesmen, as world-weary employees going from place to place selling insurance.

The tattooed man at the end of the bar was on the list Anthea had provided them with, Mycroft realised after a while. The picture had to have been 15 years old and so he had not noticed before. But the longer he looked, the more the downturn of his lip stood out, the more the scar in his left eyebrow became apparent.

Still, he and Cliff continued with idle chit-chat, discussing insurance and how useless their employer was, and how unlikely it was they would get a payrise or promotion that year.

It was Jolana who first approached the tattooed man, after one of the drunken locals had tried to smack her backside. She had sworn so eloquently at them that she left them momentarily startled. Then the tattooed man laughed, and patted the stool next to him.

From the corner of his eye, Mycroft saw the tension in Jim’s shoulders as Jolana went to sit beside the tattooed man. So Jim knew, Mycroft thought. He knew the man was on Anthea’s list.

The night wore on, the hours slow, too slow. Mycroft drank more rakia than he cared for. Jolana flirted and felt the tattooed man’s biceps, and played the piano for him. Cliff left to ‘go to bed’, while really he was in the car, ready for any sign of trouble. When the tattooed man went to the bathroom, stumbling and drunk, Jolana took his phone from his coat.

Mycroft pretended to ignore her, while the barman was too busy washing glasses to pay any mind. A minute passed, and the phone was slipped back into the man’s pocket. Mycroft left and went to the car. The chill hit him as soon as he stepped out, and the amount he had drunk offered little protection from the cold.

Cliff was poor company, still and silent as he watched from the window. Mycroft joined him in waiting.

Jolana left the bar from the back half an hour later, having slipped out through the toilets. She got into the car and sat on the floor, picking pink varnish off her nails. Jim left only when the bar closed, and he got behind the wheel without saying a word. They drove in silence.

When they returned to the safehouse, they all stood around the computer as Jolana opened the Remote Control System to access the tattooed man’s phone.

“It’s done,” she said, a small smile playing on her lips as she found the man’s location on the map. “I’ll set his phone to send us a photograph every five minutes… We’ll get the inside of his coat pocket more often than not, but he is one of those people with a phone in their hand every 10 minutes. We can access all his messages…” She groaned. “Damn, he’s a good boy, he deletes his messages. But we can listen in to every call he makes. And thanks to our friends at GCHQ, I am activating Nosey Smurf.”

Jim snorted. “Nosey Smurf?”

She grinned. “We can turn the microphone on at any time and have a listen. And he’ll have no idea. I suggest I just turn him on and we take it in turns to be nosey.” She stood up. “But you can all listen first. I need shower. I feel disgusting. I have the feeling of disgusting men all over me.”

“I’ll take first listen,” Jim said. “You guys should get some sleep.”

Mycroft read through Anthea’s documents for a while, before he tried to settle down. His last thought before he shut his eyes was how he hoped Greg was okay.

* * *

The next four days went by in a blur of productivity. Anthea had finally decrypted the messages from the phone Mads had found. The news wasn't good. A terrorist attack in London was imminent, but Mycroft had to focus on the mission in hand.  
  
Their target, the tattooed man named Vojin Miloševic, or Sniffles as Jolana had taken to calling him on account of his loud sniffing when he spoke, was surprisingly well-connected within his group.

He had once been a well-respected member of the Pink Panthers, the network of jewellery thieves. But he had wanted more, and he had left and joined the gang hiding in the mining village. That gang had begun to work together in late 2006, and Mycroft suspected Moriarty had been pivotal in putting them together. Now they ran several networks of human-traffickers throughout Europe, while still carrying out heists across the continent

“I think Sniffles is talking to the head honcho,” Jolana decided as she checked Anthea’s list. “This man…” She pointed to a picture.

“How do we confirm it?” Mycroft asked.

“We can’t. Unless we get in there. It seems to me he is the big boss. He’s planning to transport the group of women across the border into Hungary.”

“We make our move then,” Mycroft decided. “I contact him, and warn him the police know about their operation. That gives me an in.”

“I still don’t think you should do this,” Jim said. “I still reckon it should be Cliff.”

“I saw Mads in hospital,” Mycroft reminded him. “I’m not prepared to sacrifice anyone else on mine or Sherlock’s behalf.”

“If this goes as you expect, they will torture Sherlock,” Jim warned. “Are you sure there’s not another way of doing this?”

“They’ll torture him either way,” Mycroft murmured. “I haven’t got any other option.”

They waited until there were six hours to go until the lorry with the 15 women set off to transport them into Hungary and into a world of prostitution. They thought they were going for a better life, Mycroft noted sadly as he thought about them. This was one lorry-full, one group of women who they were saving. He dreaded to think of how many more there had been.

Cliff called the police about the operation. And then Mycroft rang the gang’s boss, Milosh Stankovic.

“Who is this?” Milosh demanded.

“Let’s call me an interested party, with your best interests at heart,” Mycroft replied in Serbian. “The police know about your operation.”

“What operation?”

“The women. All 15 of them. The police are ready at the border to stop your men.”

Milosh growled at him. “How do you know about that?”

“As I say. I’m an interested party. If you ignore me, your men will be stopped, and the operation will fail. And whatever you decide, I am sure you will be in touch with me later.” He hung up the phone.

“You sounded good,” Jolana said, pushing a bowl of stew in his direction. “Now eat this. You look like you need it.”

It took eight hours for Milosh to call him back. “The police were there,” he spat down the phone. “As you said.”

“And what happened?” Mycroft asked, doing his best to sound disinterested.

“They took my men. And my money.”

Mycroft huffed a breath. “I did warn you.”

“Who are you?”

“We should meet,” Mycroft said. “You could use a man like me.”

“Who are you?”

“I will not say over the phone. You never know who could be listening. Name a place, and we will meet. And believe me, you will be very interested in what I have to say.”

* * *

Mycroft was due to meet Milosh in Belgrade, at one of its finest hotels. Jolana spent 12 hours helping him revise his Serbian and his cover story. She picked out his clothing, and showed him how to walk and how to hold himself.

“I think you’re ready,” Jim said as he watched. “You look like a whole different person. I don’t even recognise you really. Especially with that bloody hat.”

Mycroft sat at a table in the ornate dining room at the hotel, drinking a sweet tea while he waited. It was not Milosh who joined him, but instead two muscular men who carried themselves like soldiers.

“Gentlemen,” Mycroft said in Serbian as they sat down. He had his script perfected. He had expected this. He told them his story three times until he was finally following them up the stairs to meet Milosh Stankovic.

He was older than Mycroft expected, streaks of grey in his black hair. He was thinner too, with his once-black beard, now grey at the edges. He stared at Mycroft from his chair with piercing blue eyes and a grimace which told of endless pain, the result of some illness Mycroft could not detect.

Mycroft stood still, arms straight by his sides, looking down at him with a contemptuous glare.

“You wanted to meet me,” Milosh said, breaking the heavy silence. “Then sit.”

Mycroft ignored him, choosing instead to make his way to the window. He could feel Milosh’s eyes on him as Mycroft treated him as no subordinate would dare. Mycroft’s character was not a subordinate. And he would not treat him as an equal either.

“You are wasting my time,” Milosh spat at him.

“I’m afraid you’ve wasted mine,” Mycroft retorted, turning in a slow circle, enhancing his Serbian accent with a low growl. “Your men are drunken idiots. They’ve been on the piss all morning.”

Milosh glared at him but did not deny it. “You have two minutes to say why you’re here, or those same men will drag you out and beat it out of you.”

Mycroft laughed and sunk down into a chair. He lit a cigarette and looked down at his watch. He smoked, letting the seconds run down until he had 30 seconds of the threat left. “Don’t you want to know how I knew the police were coming for you?” he asked.

Milosh pursed his lips. “Not as much as I want you out of my sight.”

“I was considering working with you. We could be great allies you and I. I came here expecting a well-honed organisation and instead my investigations found… incompetence.”

Milosh narrowed his eyes. “Investigations?”

“I’ve been investigating you. I had a job offer. But I won’t work with someone without carrying out enquiries first.”

“What sort of job?” Milosh asked.

“I have trucks stuck in Bosnia and Herzegovnia. I need to get them to Turkey and then Syria. I heard you would be able to help.”

Milosh snorted. “Easy. An easy job to get them into Serbia, too easy.”

Mycroft smiled coolly. “So I thought. Until your men got caught with the prostitutes. Bad enough the police found about it. Worse that you took the risk even with the warning I gave you. Is your organisation really so broke that you won’t even hold off a job for a day?”

Milosh ground his teeth. “It is harder to operate these days.”

Mycroft smiled again. “Yes, Interpol, it breathes down all our necks, and yet I am operating just fine.”

“What is your operation?”

“I’m enabling the safe transportation of goods to friends in Syria.”

“Goods?”

“Yes, food and clothes, for all the poor, poor children of Syria.” Mycroft chuckled to himself, as though rather pleased with his joke. He sighed to himself. “I didn’t want to deal with the Pink Panthers. They expect too much money but…”

“The Pink Panthers are liars and cheats,” Milosh spat at him.

“I agree,” Mycroft said. He slowly rose from his feet. “But I need to get my trucks to Syria and I need to cross the Serbian border.”

“How much?”

“How much what?”

“Cash. For the job.”

Mycroft shrugged, picking at his nails. “Two-million Euros. Upfront. And then double that upon delivery.”

Milosh’s eyes widened. “Sit.”

“I’d rather not, I’ve wasted my time. Your organisation is known by the police, they just caught your men, I can’t take the risk.”

“We have more men.” Milosh smacked his fist against the table. “Sit.”

Mycroft ignored him. “We do not have a deal.”

“I should have you killed.”

“Yes, perhaps you should, but then you definitely wouldn’t get any Euros. And I didn’t walk in here with a gun. Your men checked. It would be bad form to kill an un-armed man with a job offer.”

“I can get your trucks across the border and into Turkey and I will ask for only 25 per cent,” Milosh said.

Mycroft raised his eyebrows. “I think not.” He turned for the door.

“I ask for 23 per cent.”

Mycroft paused, and turned back to face him. “15.”

“22.”

“15.”

Milosh’s shoulders shook with anger. “15,” he agreed.

Mycroft smiled coolly and sunk back down in his chair. “It looks as though we have a deal after all.”

* * *

They celebrated the agreement over a meal of fish soup followed by a stew. Milosh had invited eight of his men, and Mycroft had Cliff sat beside him. By the end of the night, Milosh was drunk and hanging onto Mycroft’s shoulder as he cackled with laughter at the stories the men told.

Mycroft was polite but stern, playing the role of a man who did not have time to tolerate too much joviality. He smoked until he was sure his lungs were screaming at him to stop. He did not drink, though he pretended he did. The men around him got drunker and drunker and Cliff gave the impression of a man who drank to excess nightly.

They left together, a foot in the door to an organisation which was desperate for their patronage.

He spent the next two days locked in the safe house, speaking in Serbian to Cliff and Jolana.

“For fuck’s sake,” Jim finally snapped. “Can someone speak in bloody English for 10 minutes?”

“I will,” Jolana said, laughing at him.

But Mycroft did not join in. He needed to speak it constantly, he needed to immerse himself in it. He was sure he had even become the man he pretended to be. He stood straight, and smoked to excess and moved steadily and with a confidence he had never owned.

He gave Milosh confidence with the first transfer of funds, a payment of £500,000. They’d get it back, more than likely, if Interpol moved quickly enough when Mycroft gave them the signal.

More evenings followed of them drinking and eating and making plans. Mycroft paused over their discussion one lunchtime as he swirled his sparking wine around in his glass. “Stop,” he said suddenly.

Milosh stopped chortling and frowned at him.

“The police,” Mycroft mused, as though the thought had only just occurred to him. "They knew about your van. You have not solved that. The police are after you.”

“We found a man skulking around,” Milosh said. “We caught him.”

“Who is he?”

“That is what they are finding out. And we will get it out of him.”

“Is he police?”

“Doubt it,” Sniffles said. “Bastard has too much strength to be police. A policeman would have cried like a baby, but this one ain’t breaking.”

“Why not just kill him?” Mycroft asked.

“Might be money on it,” Sniffles explained, before sniffing, as was his way.

Mycroft glanced around the table. “Then who is he?” he asked.

“You heard the name Moran before?” Milosh asked.

Mycroft pulled a face. “Moriarty’s gun for hire?”

“That’s him. He’s on the hunt for some man named Sherlock Holmes. He’s offering a big reward for him.”

Mycroft sat back in his chair. “So?” he asked. “Why don’t you hand him over?”

“Because if it is Sherlock Holmes then he’ll be worth a bit of money to the Saudis. He caused a bit of trouble, and he’s a wanted man. If it’s him, we’ll get a bidding war going between them and Moran.”

“So why hasn’t he broken?” Mycroft asked.

Sniffles looked disgruntled. “Moran wants him whole, or we’d have chopped his fucking fingers off," he said, downing his drink.

“Then what have you done?” Mycroft asked.

“He’s in a cell. A bit bloody, a bit bruised but that’s it.”

“You don’t break a man by beating him,” Mycroft said. “Psychological torture is what will cause a man to snap.”

Milosh laughed. “You want to have a go?”

Mycroft smiled. “I’ll take 10 per cent of whatever the Saudis or Moran gives you, if I’m the one who makes him give up his name.”

The men all laughed, and Milosh shook his hand in agreement, and then poured another round of drinks.

* * *

That night, Mycroft sat on the settee wrapped in a blanket as he heard his own words reverberate in his head. _I will be the man to break Sherlock Holmes_ , he’d promised. He thought about his brother, his strengths and weaknesses. He only ever needed a few hours of sleep a night. He slept less than most men, he had done since he was young. Sleep deprivation was a proven tactic for making people talk, and Mycroft hoped Sherlock was the rare kind who could withstand it the longest.

The next day, he and Cliff finally had access to the mining village. They were shown Sherlock. He was thin, his hair long and lank. He was fast asleep on a stone floor.

“Wake him,” Mycroft ordered. “Do not let him fall asleep.”

He and Cliff were shown to some quarters, where they were fed and finally had a chance to assess the compound. Despite the security, and there was a lot, it was relatively lax. Mycroft and Cliff could come and go as they pleased, and they did so, without checks.

* * *

**November 2013.**

**Location: Serbia.**

Gradually, over a few days, while Sherlock was kept awake and and fed only a little bread and water, Mycroft and Cliff brought weapons to their rooms. Jim joined them, and Milosh’s men kept their distance from him. They feared Jim, Mycroft knew. Perhaps they even feared Mycroft himself. They spoke politely when Mycroft came near. Milosh had told them they needed Mycroft if they were to make their money. And Mycroft had proved his worth, by handing out expensive bottles of champagne and vodka and rakia and expecting nothing in return.

They liked him. Feared him, certainly, but they also liked his extravagant gestures. Cliff would spar with them, and Mycroft spent hours with Milosh as they put the world to rights. Of course, Milosh’s version of putting the world to rights involved more ways to get weapons into Syria, and how he could get more heavily involved in Mycroft’s made-up enterprise.

“Has the captive broken?” Mycroft asked Sniffles one afternoon.

Sniffles shrugged. “He ain’t breaking.”

Mycroft sighed. “Then it seems that I’ve lost the bet.”

Sniffles turned to a bald man doing some weights. “He's giving up the bet. Shall we beat him, boss?”

“If he doesn’t break tonight, then he’ll break tomorrow,” the bald man decided.

“I want to watch,” Mycroft said.

Sniffles grinned at him. “You’re a psychopath.”

The man doing the weights laughed. He put them down and rolled his shoulders. “Follow me. I’ll get you all comfy and then you can sit down and enjoy the show.”

Mycroft glanced in Jim’s direction. Jim held his gaze, his eyes fixed on Mycroft’s. Silent acknowledgement passed between them, as they both weighed up what this would mean.

“I want a go on the weights,” Cliff said to Jim, distracting him. “Spot me?”

Jim, who could not speak Serbian, thankfully nodded his affirmative. Mycroft followed the bald man around the back of a compound, to what had once been a slaughterhouse. They stepped past a teenager on guard duty who was listening to his dance music loud enough to make him go part-deaf by the age of 30. They turned into another room, where chains were hammered into facing two wall.s

The room was sparsely lit, water dripping from the damaged and neglected pipes, paint peeling from the damp walls. The tiled floor was slick with mud. And blood, Mycroft thought.

“Do you torture many men in here?” Mycroft asked as he took a seat.

The bald man shrugged off his jacket and cracked his knuckles. “Sometimes it is not torture. It is teaching them a lesson,” he said.

Sniffles dragged Sherlock in. He was shivering, but expressionless. He’d got thin, Mycroft thought, studying his ribs and his spine. His stomach twisted, and he had to swallow down the bile which rose to his throat. He adjusted his hat, so Sherlock could not see his face.

Despite his lack of food, Sherlock still struggled as Sniffles and the torturer, whom Mycroft began to think of as Brutus, chained his wrists. Sniffles leaned against the wall with a sadistic smirk as Brutus unhooked his belt. It swished through the air and came down on Sherlock’s back. Mycroft averted his eyes and pulled a small stool towards him. He stretched out his feet in front of him, and found he could stare at his boots while still making it appear as though his eyes were fixed on the scene in front of him.

He didn’t listen much to what Brutus said. The questions came, the mocking continued, the belt was swapped with a piece of much stronger leather.

Mycroft would tense as it swished through the air, and Sherlock gave nothing away, but for his groans and cries of pain. _It won’t happen tonight_ , Mycroft thought suddenly, reaching for the phone in his pocket and letting go just as abruptly. He knew Jolana would be listening to all of this, ready to give a cue to Jim and Cliff. _But it might not be this night. How long could Sherlock really sustain this?_ Mycroft wondered.

He felt a wave of nausea come over him. Sniffles went away eventually, apparently bored. Mycroft sat in silence and watched as Brutus taunted Sherlock and tried to beat the truth out of him.

Then Brutus stopped. He yanked Sherlock’s head up. “What?” he asked.

Mycroft frowned. “Well?” he asked, his voice roughened as he fought to keep the tension and trembling out of it. “What did he say?”

Brutus let go of him and stared. “He said that I used to work in the navy, where I had an unhappy love affair. That the electricity isn’t working in my bathroom, and that my wife is sleeping with our next door neighbour.” He grabbed Sherlock’s head by the hair. “And? And?” Sherlock whispered to him again. “If I go home now, I’ll catch them at it! I knew it! I knew there was something going on!”

Brutus fled from the room. Mycroft waited until the door slid shut, metal scraping against metal. He gave one quick thought to the men outside. One teenager on guard, he thought. Four men outside, in the front. It was in hand. They could do this.

“So, my friend. Now it’s just you and me,” Mycroft relayed in Serbian, not for Sherlock’s benefit, but for Jolana. Now she would give a signal to Jim and to Cliff. He had two minutes to wait, two minutes to give them time to make their way into the slaughterhouse. He stood up. He walked over to Sherlock, who stank of sweat and blood, and it made him want to recoil. “You have no idea the trouble it took to find you.”

Mycroft gripped Sherlock’s greasy hair. “Now listen to me,” he whispered in Sherlock’s ear, the English words finally escaping his mouth for the first time in days. “There’s an underground terrorist network active in London and a massive attack is imminent. Sorry, but the holiday is over.” He released his head. “Brother dear.” He took a step back. “Back to Baker Street, Sherlock Holmes.”

He saw the beginnings of a smile on Sherlock’s face. He lifted his head, and despite the muck and the blood he looked calm. “Are you quite done?” Sherlock asked with a roll of his eyes.

Mycroft retrieved his phone and checked his messages.

 

MESSAGES Jolana Pieczynski  
10.41pm: Three minutes.

 

“Right then,” Mycroft said, grabbing the keys from the wall and unlocking the cuffs. Sherlock straightened, wincing. “No time to feel the pain,” Mycroft told him. He unbuttoned his coat and tossed it to Sherlock to wear. Sherlock shrugged it on, pushing his long, unruly hair out of his eyes.

“Plan?” he asked.

Mycroft offered him a small shrug. “There is one. Loosely.”

Sherlock smirked at him. “You’re actually doing legwork.”

Mycroft handed him a gun. “We have to go through the back,” he said. “Cliff and Jim are at the front. Where’s Palfrey?”

“Killed days ago,” Sherlock said.

Mycroft bit his lip. “Right,” he said, not giving himself time to dwell on it, while at the same time, he was not wholly surprised. “Ready?” he asked.

Sherlock shrugged. “After you, brother dear.”

Mycroft sprinted to the door, and gripped the handle. He glanced at Sherlock, who looked far, far too small in Mycroft’s larger coat. Sherlock raised his eyebrows at him. “On two,” Mycroft whispered. “One… two…” He heaved the door open, as a gunshot echoed through the air. He hung back for a moment, as smoke began to fill the adjoining room. He covered his mouth with his left hand and slid out through the door, back pressed against the damp wall. He didn’t feel the cold, even though Sherlock now wore his coat. He heard footsteps, closer, closer…

“Holmes!” Jim called out, Mycroft letting out a sound of relief. More shots were fired, and Jim and Cliff joined them, forcing a door closed behind them. “Go!” Jim hissed.

Mycroft ran, Sherlock on his shoulder. They fled through a door to the left, Mycroft hoping he had judged it right and chosen the right route out of the dimly lit rooms. Cliff fired shots back at those chasing them, and Sherlock let out several shots of his own as Jim took up the lead. Mycroft stuck close to him, eyes scanning the scene.

They made their way to a connecting antechamber. “Shit!” Jim swore. “Fuck, we’re going in a sodding, fucking circle.”

“Just run!” Cliff shouted at him, and Jim did just that. Mycroft breathed in the smoke and spluttered, covering his mouth again as he ran, not looking back over his shoulder as shots rang out and the smell of gunpowder filled the air. From behind him, Cliff yelled out in pain and stumbled, but they all ran and ran. Mycroft panted for breath, but kept up with Jim as best he could. All four of them were still running, still shooting, still searching for the exit.

Jim yanked open a door, and they came face to face with the teenager, his earphones still in his ears. He stared at them with wide eyes and reached into his pocket and BANG. Jim shot him, straight in the centre of his head, an execution. Mycroft stared down at the teenager’s hand, to where a walkie-talkie rested in his palm. He had not been reaching for a gun. But there was no time to stare, or to pity the teenager who had lost his life. Jim grabbed his arm and yanked him outside. All around them helicopters were taking to the skies, and there was shouting and confusion as drunk gang members stumbled from their rooms. The police had arrived. Their helicopters descended, and the gunfire was endless, as the gang deployed machine guns, and fired at the police as Mycroft and the others rushed out to the dirt track.

Jolana was there, the car ready. They squeezed inside, Jim in the front, shooting his gun out of the window as she put her foot down, shots still firing around them. Cliff shot out of an open passenger door before he finally managed to pull it shut.

“We’re being followed still,” Jim hissed. “Two… three cars.”

“Shut the fuck up, Jim,” Jolana replied, her voice calm. “I’ve got this.” She drove like a professional racer, smooth and speedy, until they were back on the dirt track and racing down the makeshift road. She’d driven this track numerous times over the past few days, and she seemed to know every twist, every bend. Mycroft looked out of the back window to see one of the chasing cars crash into a tree, before it spun, blocking the road for any other vehicle.

Jolana drove and soon they were on the open road, empty at that time of night. It took eight miles until the helicopter stopped tracking them. Air traffic control would pick up on it if it strayed too far from the forest.

From beside him, Sherlock groaned and dipped his head forward. Mycroft caught him and pushed him back up to a sitting position. “You’ve got to hang on for some time yet,” Mycroft said, although he could feel his own exhaustion beginning to seep into his own muscles. Not yet, he told himself. He had to sustain the adrenaline for some time yet.

Cliff was tying a jacket around his thigh from where a bullet had skimmed his thigh. It took an hour for them to reach the airport, to where an aeroplane was waiting, its engine running. Mycroft pushed Sherlock up the stairs and fastened his seatbelt for him as the doors were pulled shut and they were readied for take-off.

It took three minutes until they were in the air, and Mycroft let go of the breath he was holding. Jolana got up from where she was tending to Cliff’s injury. She rummaged through the first aid kit and handed Sherlock some painkillers. He was conscious enough to take them and then gulp down some water. He groaned and promptly fell asleep.

Mycroft sunk down onto the chairs in front of Sherlock and gripped the arm-rests. He looked over as Jim took a seat beside him, and wordlessly held out Mycroft’s anti-anxiety pills. Mycroft managed a small smile and took them.

When he woke, they were on English soil.


	71. Healing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I've got Tom Odell's song Heal on replay at the moment. Worth a listen, if you get a chance (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zVxdY4rWIlQ)

**November 2013.**

**Location: The Coeur de Lion Offices, Mayfair, London.**

Mycroft groaned when he was finally hidden behind the privacy of the bathroom door. He blinked into the bright lights, not daring to look at his face in the mirror. He unzipped the heavy green jacket, dropping it by the sinks, and then unlaced his boots and pulled them off with his socks.

He had showered at work once or twice before, when he had stayed overnight and was needed at a meeting, but he tended to avoid it. Now, however, he could think of nothing better. As he peeled off each layer of clothing, he stripped off the man he had become. The man who was complicit in his own brother’s torture. The man who stood like a soldier, and laughed at the prospect of murder. 

He stepped under the shower, the water not hot enough for his liking. Mud and sweat and blood was washed from his skin and hair.  His arms and shoulders ached as he washed and, not long later, he was too exhausted to stand. He wrapped a towel around his waist and leaned against the sinks, his eyes falling closed. 

He finally turned to look at himself in the steamed-up mirror, wiping the condensation away. There were dark circles under his eyes, ones he knew would not go away for a few days yet. He dried himself and dressed in the suit Anthea had left hanging behind the door. The soft fabrics, light in colour, began to bring him back to himself, and somehow he found a renewed energy to carry him out of the bathroom. 

He joined Anthea in his office, where a cup of coffee was waiting for him. He had one long sip, grateful for the sweetness in the cream. 

“Sherlock’s sleeping,” Anthea said. “The medics have assessed him. We’ve left him on the sofa in my office.”

“Thank you,” Mycroft said, sinking into the chair behind his desk and studying her. “I would like to go home but judging by the look on your face, that may not be possible.”

Anthea sighed. “I’m sorry, sir. We have more information on the terrorist attack in London.”

“Is MI5 dealing with it?”

“Yes. And no.”

Mycroft rubbed his forehead. “One thing at a time. When Loretta gets to work, can you ask her to collect some clothes for Sherlock? And hire a barber.”

“Of course.”

Mycroft reached into his drawer. “A key for Baker Street,” he said, handing it to Anthea. “It’s best she stays quiet and does not disturb Mrs Hudson.” 

“I’ll tell her when she comes in. I’m sorry about this, sir. I know you want to get home to Greg.”

Mycroft paused. “Is he?” he asked. “Home, I mean.”

“Of course.” Anthea eyed him curiously. “Where else would he be?”

“I didn’t leave on particularly good terms.”

“Because of Sherlock?” she asked. 

Mycroft sighed. “No. Because of me. Because of the Sherlock situation but… it was my fault I left on bad terms.”

Anthea took a seat opposite him. “He’s still there. I’ve seen him. He’s okay.”

Mycroft tried to push all thoughts of him aside. “I’ll be home soon enough. What do you know about the terrorist plot?”

“The communications we’re picking up say there is going to be a strike. But we don’t know whom, and we don’t know when or where. We’re picking up noise and chatter. But we don’t know where it’s coming from.”

“I’ll get Sherlock working on it. He used to have a good system for tracing noise. What else is there?”

“They’re voting on the Anti-Terrorism and Investigatory Powers Bill on Guy Fawkes Night.”

Mycroft shot her a look. “Sorry?” he asked. 

“The legislation. It’s being heard in Parliament.”

Mycroft frowned. “That was quick. Too quick. Can you get me a copy?”

“Of course, sir.”

“We need to find Moran. Make it a priority. How is Mads?”

“Bored, I believe.”

“Get him back in the office.”

Anthea frowned. “Sir, I don’t think…”

“He will want to be back. We’ll do everything we can to make him comfortable, but we need him working on this.”

“Yes, sir.”

Mycroft typed in his laptop password. “Leave me now. I have work to catch up on.”

The state of the nation was anything but rosy. A terrorist plot on the one hand, and the most invasive piece of legislation Mycroft had ever read on the other. It had got worse since he gave his recommendations. Every phone call, every text, every webpage… The secret services could access everything. And though they had been doing it for years, this made it legal. But the language was not transparent enough to make the Government’s intentions clear. Mycroft knew they could also hack into phones, tablets, televisions, fridges… anything with an internet connection. And a growing number of objects were joining the ‘internet of things’. The Government could know everything. Own everything. The legislation had so many loopholes, Mycroft was certain even he hadn’t found them all. 

It was 11 hours later when Sherlock finally roused. He let the barber cut his hair and shave his face, all the while recounting the victorious moments when he took down another piece of Moriarty’s web. Mycroft half-listened, still trawling through the latest emails from Parliament. 

“You have been busy, haven’t you?” he finally interrupted. “Quite the busy little bee. Anyway, you’re safe now.” Following a round of their usual bickering, Anthea brought Sherlock his clothes.

“Been shopping for me, have you?” Sherlock asked Mycroft. 

Mycroft smiled coolly. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you? The image of me running around the shops for you. No, I’m afraid you’ll have to do your own shopping if you wish to bring your wardrobe up to date.”

Sherlock snorted and let the barber finish his work. He finally left them alone, and Sherlock began to pull on his clothes. Mycroft winced when he saw the bruises on his body, but said nothing. “I have a problem I wish for you to look into,” Mycroft told him.

“The terrorist plot.”

“Yes.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “I thought you had MI5 at your disposal.”

“I do. But this group seems far more competent than our usual lot, and it’s not as though you have anything else in your diary. Being dead and all.”

“Word of my life will spread pretty quickly, I imagine,” Sherlock said, checking his appearance in the mirror. 

“It might be worth making a formal announcement.”

Sherlock raised his eyebrows. “I think that would be in very poor taste.”

“Yes, wouldn’t it be. Call mummy, will you?”

“You call her.”

Mycroft folded his arms. “You’ve been gone for two years. I think she’d appreciate the call.”

“You call her,” Sherlock repeated. “So, what’s new? In the world, I mean, I don’t care about your life.”

“Do you actually care about what’s happening in the world either?” Mycroft asked. 

Sherlock smirked. “No, not really.”

Mycroft rose from his seat. “Sherlock. This is a very urgent matter…”

Sherlock eyed him. “Yes, your hair has receded about two inches since I last saw you.”

Mycroft sighed, exasperated. “Wonderful, it’s time for the petty insults…”

Sherlock flashed him a cool smile. “Missed it?” 

“Not for a second. I need you to give this matter your full attention, Sherlock. Is that quite clear?”

“What do you think of this shirt?” Sherlock asked. 

“Sherlock!”

“I will find your underground terror cell, Mycroft. Just put me back in London. I need to get to know the place again, breathe it in, feel every quiver of its beating heart.” 

Unconvinced, Mycroft gave him the benefit of the doubt. 

* * *

Mycroft got home a few hours later. He dreaded to think how poorly Sherlock’s reunion with John Watson was going. He hung his coat up, and reached out, running his hand along the length of Greg’s scarf which hung beside it. Anthea was right, of course, that he was still sleeping at Crusader House.

Mycroft checked their bedroom, and found the sheets creased, an empty cigarette packet beside the bed. He threw it away and smoothed down the bedding. He heard a soft padding across the floor and spun around. He stared at the small, grey creature which had stopped in the doorway. They eyed one another. “Hello,” Mycroft said to the kitten. 

He took a step towards it, but it scurried back out into the living room. Bemused, Mycroft followed it to where it had sat down by a scratching post. It had a companion, another kitten with squashed ears, who was fast asleep on the floor. 

For the first time in weeks, Mycroft managed a smile. If there was a scratching post, then the kittens hadn’t broken in, which could only mean Greg had brought them home. Which could only mean he intended to stay. No, Mycroft told himself. He would not get his hopes up high enough that he could believe Greg really was staying for good. Mycroft eyed the pile of presents by the fire, but left them alone. 

He was cutting up vegetables when he heard the key in the door. He caught his breath, waiting. The familiar footsteps grew louder as Greg made his way to the kitchen. Mycroft turned to face him. He hadn’t let himself think of Greg often, as he forced himself to get lost in the mission, to become the character he pretended to be. Now emotions flooded back to him, the relief in seeing him, the fear it would not last. And the desperate longing to touch him. 

Mycroft put the cheese grater down and stepped closer, reaching out with one hand, still afraid of the rejection. “Greg,” he murmured. He needn’t have worried. Greg was in his arms seconds later in a crushing hug. 

“God, Mycroft,” he said against his neck and Mycroft squeezed his eyes shut, smoothing his hands over his jacket and inhaling his scent.

“I’m sorry I left like that-” Mycroft began.

“-No, I am.”

“I had to go, Sherlock was in danger and I…”

“Shut up and kiss me.”

Mycroft lifted his head and felt the smile spread over his face. Greg was smiling back, moving to cup Mycroft’s face in his hands. He kissed him, and it felt like coming home. Mycroft could feel the tiredness slipping from him, the aching in his shoulders soothed by Greg’s mere existence. They looked at each other, faces inches apart, Mycroft taking the time to analyse the dark circles under Greg’s eyes, to smell the cigarettes still lingering on his breath. 

The moment was broken by a kitten walking in and out of their legs. Mycroft raised his eyebrows as he kissed Greg’s cheek. “Kittens?” he asked, smiling against his face.

“Mulder and Scully. That’s Scully.”

“They’re quite wonderful.”

Greg grinned. “I thought you’d be a bit mad at me to be honest.”

“No. The moment I walked in and found them wandering around the living room, I must admit I was confused. But I realised if you’d bought us kittens, then you wouldn’t be leaving.”

Greg pulled him in for another hug, his hand wrapped around the back of Mycroft’s head. “I missed you so much, you daft bugger,” he said.

The words were a song to Mycroft’s ears, the most beautiful lyrics of all time. “You saw Sherlock, I presume?” Mycroft asked, not willing to let him go. 

Greg pulled back and looked at him, but left his hands on Mycroft’s shoulders. “How is he? Honestly?”

“I don’t know,” Mycroft sighed. “I really couldn’t tell you.”

“I’ll find him a case tomorrow to get him back in the swing of things. You know John smacked him one? Well, a few times actually.”

Mycroft shook his head. “I don’t know why he thought it could go any differently.”

“He let me hug him, Mycroft.” Greg frowned. “He let me hug him. That’s… y’know, that’s not… not something he would have let me do before.”

“Mmm,” Mycroft agreed. “I’ll see him tomorrow.”

“Does he know about us?”

“No. I thought it better to keep it a secret while he is adjusting. Especially now he will no longer be living with Doctor Watson.”

“Good plan,” Greg said. “Yeah, that works with me.”

Mycroft finished cooking dinner, Greg’s arms wrapped around him while he stirred the pasta and the tomato sauce. “How is work?” Mycroft asked as they sat at the table, Greg’s socked feet coming to rest on top of his.

“Yeah, good, actually,” Greg said after a mouthful. “We’ve had the inspectors in, checking we’re doing everything right, and it all seems okay. We won’t know for sure for a few more weeks but the feedback was good.”

“Did they evaluate your team?”

“God yeah. They went everywhere. And they looked at the investigations we’re running at the moment and everything else. I thought they’d come down hard on us with the Waters Gang stuff, but they didn’t really say anything about it. I’ve been involved in some training lately as well.”

“Training the new PCs?” Mycroft asked.

“Yeah. I got roped into it. But to be honest, it just involves shadowing them a few times and then talking to them about any problems they’ve had.”

“It sounds like something which would suit you. Supporting the trainees, I mean.”

“Yeah. I like it. You look a bit tired, love.”

Mycroft smiled. “I am,” he admitted, reaching across the table to stroke Greg’s fingers. “Where did Mulder and Scully come from?”

“A police press officer. It was a bit impulsive really. I didn’t think about it, until I’d got them home and then realised I’d never looked after cats in my life.”

“They seem to like you.”

“They’re just used to me. Mrs Lunden keeps giving them treats, I think. They’re going to end up getting round if we’re not careful.”

Mycroft laughed and cleared their plates away. He washed up while Greg dried, and they took their coffee to the living room.  Mycroft glanced at the pile of presents and cards beside the fire. “Someone must be planning your birthday early,” he said, walking towards the gifts and picking one up from the top.

“No. They’re not birthday gifts. They’re…” Greg trailed off, and Mycroft looked round at him. “They’re for you,” Greg admitted. “They’re… welcome home gifts, I guess.”

“I’ve gone away before,” Mycroft said carefully. 

“I know. I know, it’s stupid.”

“You had more nightmares.”

“Yeah.”

Taking care not to press him on it, Mycroft knelt down by the fire. “Which would you like me to open first?” he asked. 

Greg smiled, a small cautious smile, as he sat down beside him, their shoulders pressing together. “Any,” he said. “They’re nothing major.”

Mycroft kissed his cheek. “It is, Greg. This is incredibly thoughtful.” Greg wrapped an arm around him, and Mycroft leaned into him, reaching for the first envelope. Four orange post-it notes fluttered out, each dated with a musing Greg had that day. Mycroft smiled as he read some, pressed kisses to Greg’s cheek when he read the others, which said how much he missed him.

There was a bottle of whiskey, coffee, and a new scarf, which Mycroft wrapped around Greg’s neck and used to pull him into a kiss. There were photo frames, and a book and an invisible ink pen. Mycroft laughed and reached for the last gift. He kissed Greg’s jaw and his neck as he tore at the wrapping. A T-Rex bottle opener fell into his hand. 

Mycroft laughed. “How many novelty dinosaur gifts do we have now?”

Greg smiled guiltily. “A few.”

“The things you can buy online…”

Greg laughed and squeezed his knee. “It wasn’t even hard to find it. I just typed it into Google, and there were loads of choose from.” 

Mycroft smiled and stretched his legs out in front of him, wriggling his fingers as one of the kittens, Scully, he was sure it was Scully, peered at him. Greg dropped his head onto his shoulder and Mycroft stroked his hair, resting his cheek against his head. Mycroft reached out for Scully, scooping her up and holding her close. She was having none of it and squirmed until he released her. 

“You’re thinking,” Mycroft murmured, turning his attention back to Greg when he realised he had been silent for a while. “What’s wrong?”

“Just how. It’s just been.” Greg sighed. “It’s just been a tough few months. It feels weird to work for something for so long and then for it just to stop.”

“If you hadn’t put all that work in, you know Sherlock could never have come home.”

“You didn’t need me for all that,” Greg said. “You’d have done it without me.”

“Perhaps,” Mycroft agreed. “But it would have been a weaker case. You convinced me to let Sally Donovan do her best work, and she did. And the evidence you put together was more than I could have dreamt of. Greg, I am under no illusions of what I have done to you. That you’re still here is far more than I honestly expected.”

“So, where are we?” Greg asked, lifting his head. 

“The question of trust matters greatly to me, as it does to you. But I don’t expect our positions have changed since I was last home.”

“Mine hasn’t,” Greg said. Mycroft swallowed and stared at his feet. “Look, can I make this clear?” Greg continued. “Fine, that you and Sherlock had to keep his death a secret. But you and me have been together for a year. And you never said a word. I think that’s what hurts. That after all this time, you didn’t trust me. And I get why you did it. I’ve been thinking a lot these few weeks, and I don’t even blame you that much. But it’s that question, isn’t it? What else would you keep from me?”

Mycroft sighed. “I know.”

Greg bit his lip. “Think it over, yeah? Just over the next few days, think it over. Because I understand your reasons. But if it affects us directly… If a secret is going to hurt either of us, then I don’t think I should be kept in the dark. I’ve done that, Mycroft. I’ve done two marriages where my wife cheated on me and we kept secrets from each other. I never told Jane about my birth parents. I’ve tried to be different with you. I’ve been nothing but open with you, and it’s not easy for me. So, can you just. Can you just think about it? Please.”

Mycroft squeezed his hand. “Of course.”

“I remember you said to me once than you thought you were going to be in this relationship like a kid learning to walk. And I think you’ve walked just fine. But this is a really big deal for both of us if we’re going to stay together. And I know this secret killed you just as much as it killed me.”

“Every day.”

“The thing is, I don’t want to be anywhere else,” Greg told him. “I’ve never had anything this good before.”

Mycroft hummed his agreement, letting out a soft sigh of relief as Greg leaned back against him again as the kittens played with the wrapping paper and then attacked Greg’s toes. 

“They’re perfect,” Mycroft said after a while, watching them with a smile. “Sherlock always loved his dog, Redbeard, but I preferred cats.”

“I’m a dog person, but they take too much work. These two can look after each other.” Greg paused. “We’re going to be okay, aren’t we?” he asked.

“We will be,” Mycroft promised. 

They went to bed soon after, and got under the covers, skin sliding against skin as they kissed and kissed. Hands reacquainted themselves with chests and hips and thighs, fingers finding those most sensitive of spots with practised ease. Not given to wasting time in fumbling for the lubricant that night, they pressed their bodies together, eyes fixed on each other, lips stealing kisses and enjoying the long, slow journey to their mutual climax. 

They lay together afterwards with Greg’s head on Mycroft’s chest, Mycroft hardly able to keep his eyes open as he stroked his hair. Finally, listening to Greg's soft snores, he found his equilibrium. The man he had been, the torturer, the killer, the criminal, slipped away. 

And he was Mycroft Holmes again. Mycroft Holmes who had a home, who had a family. And Mycroft Holmes who was very much loved. 

* * *

They slept in late that morning. Greg was on a late shift, but he called ahead anyway, since he was usually at work earlier than he needed to be.

“I notice you don’t need to call anyone,” Greg said when he hung up and spooned up to Mycroft from behind.

“I’m my own boss,” Mycroft mumbled into the pillow. 

“And what does Anthea say to that?”

“She says ‘yes, sir’.” He smiled to himself. “And ‘you should have called me so I didn’t worry’. And I do need to warn the driver.” Mycroft groaned and rolled onto his back. 

Greg kissed his nose. “How long was it since you last slept?”

“I lost count of the hours.” 

“I don’t know how you were functioning.”

“Adrenaline. And then… necessity.”

Greg grinned and reached for Mycroft’s phone. “I’ll text Anthea and Max for you-”

“-Malcolm today,” Mycroft mumbled. 

Greg laughed. “Okay, I’ll text Anthea and Malcolm and tell them you’ll be late.”

“Very late. I’m going via Sherlock’s.”

“Go back to sleep,” Greg whispered to him. 

Smiling and curling up to Greg’s side, Mycroft did just that. 

When he woke again, Greg was already dressed and had carried in a tray of coffee and croissants, and a copy of The Times. They ate in bed, Mycroft flicking through the paper.

“I should go,” Greg said, leaning over to give him a kiss. “Say ‘hi’ to Sherlock for me. If he works it out. Love you.”

Mycroft smiled. “Love you too.” His eyes lingered on Greg’s body as he got off the bed and flashed him one last smile.

When he was alone, Mycroft got up and dressed and went to Sherlock’s. With some reluctance, he answered his phone when his mother called. “Yes?” he said. 

“Is that a way to answer your phone, Mycroft?” she demanded. 

He rubbed his head. “Clearly not.”

“I’ve just seen the news.”

“Oh good.”

“No, not good,” she snapped. “When were you thinking of telling us about Sherlock?”

Mycroft opened his mouth and closed it again. “I told Sherlock to call you,” he finally answered.

“And does that boy ever do what you tell him to?” 

“Occasionally.”

“Rarely. You can make it up to us. Breakfast and a show.”

Mycroft bit back a groan. When on earth would he find time for his parents? “When?” he asked. 

“We’re coming tomorrow. You make the reservation and then join us for the matinee on November 6. Les Miserables.”

Mycroft sighed. “Fine,” he said. 

“Greg is welcome.”

“I’m sure he’ll be working. I need to go.”

“We will see you in a few days.”

“Yes,” Mycroft agreed, hanging up. 

When Mycroft got to Sherlock’s flat, he found his brother had pinned a map to the wall, alongside photographs and letters. Mycroft paused by the settee, looking up at it. 

“You’re working on it then?” Mycroft said. “The attack.”

Sherlock slumped into his chair. “One of many cases I’m considering lending my expertise to.”

Mycroft’s eyes fell on a picture of Lord Moran. He frowned. “Are you going to explain this to me then?”

Sherlock eyed him. “You look unusually rested.”

“That’s what happens when someone bothers to go to sleep.” Mycroft looked round at his brother, who was still dressed in his dressing gown. “Clearly a task you’ve failed to undertake.”

“I slept for hours yesterday.”

Mycroft rolled his eyes and took a seat opposite him. “Let’s talk about this attack.”

“Oh, that’s boring, let’s not.”

Mycroft narrowed his eyes at him. “Mummy is inviting you to breakfast and a show.”

“They’re going to see Les Mis again, I bet. You can go this time, I took the bullet last time.”

“You should have called them.”

“ _You_ should have called them,” Sherlock retorted. “We’re all blaming you for this mess anyway…”

“Blaming _me_?” Mycroft echoed, eyebrows raised. “I wasn’t the one attracting serial killers to…” He held his hands up in silent defeat. “It doesn’t matter now, does it? You’re back.”

Sherlock stood up. “Let’s play a game.”

“We’ve played enough games to last us a lifetime.”

But Sherlock ignored him and picked a box up. “Operation,” he announced, dropping it down on the table.

“We’re not children anymore, Sherlock.”

“We didn’t play games when we _were_ children.”

“Then it’s a bit late for making up for lost time.”

Sherlock shrugged and picked up the tweezers. “I need something to take my mind off the attack.”

“You should be focusing on it not… not worrying yourself with trivialities.” Sherlock picked the first body part out of the board and held the tweezers out. Tutting, Mycroft took them from him. “At least promise me you’re giving the case your attention,” Mycroft muttered. “Who do you think is behind it?”

“London. It’s like a great cesspool into which all kinds of criminals, agents and drifters are irresistibly drained. Sometimes it’s not a question of ‘who?’, it’s a question of ‘who knows?’ There are certain people – they are markers. If they start to move, I’ll know something’s up – like rats deserting a sinking ship.”

Mycroft rolled his eyes. “All very interesting, Sherlock, but the terror alert has been raised to critical. None of these markers of yours is behaving in any way suspiciously?”

“No, Mycroft, but you have to trust me. I’ll find the answer.” 

They continued to play the ridiculous game, until Mycroft finally lost. Then they played Deductions, and as far as Mycroft could tell, Sherlock had failed to deduce anything about him. 

Feeling uneasy, he called Greg to his office to talk to him about it. 

“I saw him this morning,” Mycroft said when Greg finally arrived.

“And?”

“We played Operation. And Deductions.”

Greg laughed. “Who won?”

“Sherlock won Operation. I believe I won Deductions.” Mycroft frowned. “Especially since he deduced I was lonely and failed to notice I had acquired a cat.”

Greg shook his head. “He didn’t question me either.” They both held each other’s worried gaze. “Not good,” Greg finally said.

“No,” Mycroft agreed, leaning on the desk beside him.

“Any suggestions?”

“No. He won’t talk to me. And he’ll do all he can to protect John from knowing the full extent of what happened to him.”

“I’ll see what I can do,” Greg said. “But he won’t talk to me either. Anyway. I’m guessing you didn’t call me here to talk about Sherlock. What’s up?”

Mycroft paused for a moment and then took out a copy of the Official Secrets Act, putting the paper down on the table in front of Greg. He'd thought it a lot that morning, how to prove to Greg that he trusted him, that he would do his best to stop the secrets from coming between them. 

“What the hell is this?” Greg enquired.

“The Official Secrets Act. If you signed it, you would have a clearance level the equivalent of Anthea’s. It protects me from going to prison if you divulge sensitive information I told you about, since you are now responsible for keeping it secret.” He picked it back up, ripping it in half and half again. “Ask anything you want,” Mycroft told him. 

Greg peered at him. “Ask anything?” 

“About anything. Terrorism, politics, war. Anything you’re interested in, I will share with you.”

Greg bit his lip. “You’re serious.”

“Very much.”

“But I didn’t sign that form.”

“No, Greg,” Mycroft said, holding his eyes. “You didn’t.” They stared at each other for a few moments. Mycroft threw the pieces of paper into the bin.

“You trust me,” Greg murmured.

“Implicitly.”

“I can ask you anything?” Greg asked.

“Everything you want.”

“Is this a one-time offer? Or is this a forever offer?”

“The offer will always stand.”

Greg smiled at him. “Do you want me to sign that form?” Mycroft paused, unblinking. Greg’s smile widened. “C’mon. I know you do. Put it in front of me. I’ll do it.”

Mycroft retrieved more papers from his drawer. “I would have told you even if you hadn’t signed it.”

“I know,” Greg replied. “And that’s why I’m offering to sign this one.” He picked up one of Mycroft’s pens and went through the sheets, signing his name on each of them. He handed them back to Mycroft.

Mycroft spent the afternoon making phone calls to Nadia Swift and trying to find out more about the terrorist plot. He only hoped Sherlock was doing the same. As the hours slipped by, he began to make certain arrangements, increasing security, doing everything at his disposal to search every likely target.

Mads was back at work. He kept moving his arm, as though expecting his hand to be there, and then finding it wasn’t. Mycroft watched him for a while, but doubted Mads would be looking for any sympathy, and left him alone. 

He worked until midnight, and when he finally got home he ate some of the leftovers Greg had put in the microwave for him. 

Greg stirred when Mycroft got into bed beside him. “Sorry,” Mycroft whispered as he kissed his brow. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”

“I wanted you to wake me up,” Greg replied, his voice thick with sleep. “I wanted to know you were home.” 

Mycroft kissed his lips. “I’m home. I have a request of you.”

“Yeah?”

“My parents, tomorrow morning. Breakfast at Claridge’s.” 

Greg laughed and pulled Mycroft into his arms and shivered. “Christ, you’re cold. I suppose I can manage fancy breakfast in a fancy hotel.”

Mycroft laughed and nuzzled his neck, warming up alongside Greg’s body. “Thank you.”

“It’s alright. You okay? Caught your terrorist?”

“Not yet. Sherlock is on the case. Supposedly.”

“Sleep will do you good.”

“Yes,” Mycroft agreed, closing his eyes. He spread one arm over Greg’s chest and fell asleep with a smile.

* * *

They met his parents outside the five star hotel in Mayfair. Mycroft kissed his mother on the cheek, and led them inside.

“Did you have a good trip down?” Greg asked her as they walked.

“Yes, thankfully we made the coach on time, though that was looking rather unlikely at one point,” his mother replied. “We had a coach at 6am, and we’d planned to bring the Lottery ticket with us, because there are some winnings on it, and we thought that £30 would be a nice treat. Of course, this morning, we couldn’t find it anywhere.”

Mycroft glanced over his shoulder to try to catch Greg’s eyes and to share an exasperated look with him, but found his partner was listening intently to the story instead. Mycroft found Greg’s sincerity brought a smile to his face. 

“Did you manage to find it?” Greg asked.

“Well, I asked if he’d looked down the back of the sofa,” mummy continued. “He’s always losing things down there. You can find a sweet shop down the back of our sofa. But yes, we found it and caught the coach on time after all.”

“Clearly,” Mycroft murmured, smiling politely to the waiter who led them to their table. “Since you’re here on time.”

“Don’t be obnoxious, Mycroft,” his mother chastised. “It’s not an attractive quality.”

Mycroft smiled to himself, and rested his hand on Greg’s knee. They shared a menu as his mother continued to talk.

“We’re thinking of seeing St Paul’s, and then the Tower, and Parliament as well,” she said.

“They have an exhibition at the Tower apparently,” his father added.

Mycroft hummed, smiling as Greg’s hand covered his beneath the table. 

“Do you come here for breakfast a lot?” mummy asked. 

“No. Afternoon tea, sometimes.” Mycroft ordered a round of teas for them all, checking his phone as his mother caught them up on all her news. Greg kept the conversation going while Mycroft checked Watchtower for updates. 

Mycroft chose to order five breakfast canapes for himself, while Greg opted for a full English. Mycroft tucked into a quail’s egg benedictine, with a smoked haddock beignet, figs wrapped in Parma ham, smoked salmon and a warm quiche with goat’s cheese and red onion. 

“Are you intending to see Sherlock?” Mycroft asked his parents.

“Oh yes, we’ll pop round this afternoon, I think.” His mother flashed a smile. “Catch him unawares.”

“It’s probably best,” Mycroft acknowledged. “Don’t keep him too long though, he’s doing some work for me.”

“Is it safe?”

“Yes, it’s safe.”

His mother shot him a sceptical look. “Greg, dear, I don’t know how on earth you put up with them both.”

Greg grinned. “I find it easier to see them one-on-one rather than get in the same room as them both.”

Mummy smiled. “Yes, that sounds best,” she agreed. 

Mycroft and Greg shared a soft kiss before they went their separate ways, Mycroft going to his office to watch the debate on the anti-terrorism bill while simultaneously trying to deal with the terrorism problem.

It was late evening when Sherlock finally contacted him. 

 

MESSAGES Sherlock Holmes  
9.51pm: Sumatra Road Station.   
You’ll find the bomb there, send   
your best experts. SH

 

Mycroft let out a long sigh of relief. He called it in with MI5 then checked the map to see where Sumatra Road was. Beneath Parliament. On Guy Fawkes night. He rolled his eyes, disbelieving. 

 

MESSAGES Sherlock Holmes  
9.53pm: Lord Moran behind it all.  
Find him and arrest him. SH

 

That gave him a moment of pause. He called that in too, then held his phone in his hands as he contemplated it. Lord Moran, he thought, frowning. A peer of the realm, a disliked man, by all accounts, but a terrorist? 

The North Korea link? he asked himself, searching for Lord Moran in his database, reading information from GCHQ, MI5 and MI6. He read everything he could on him, but it didn’t provide much new information. 

He did a perfunctory search his family history, finding details on a brother who had died in action in Afghanistan but nothing of much note. 

He learned some hours later the bomb had been disabled, and Moran had been arrested. 

He tried not to think of it too deeply when he got home, nor the next day, when he was forced to suffer Les Miserables. 

* * *

Jim Braum turned up at the Coeur de Lion Offices one afternoon, having just got back from a two-week break. He slumped down into the chair opposite Mycroft’s, looking around distractedly at his office.

“Jim?” Mycroft prompted after a few minutes, when it was clear he was not going to talk without invitation.

Jim met his eyes, and let out a long breath. “I’m handing in my notice,” he said, biting his lip.

Mycroft sat back in his chair. He clasped his hands together on the desk. He paused for a moment, mulling it over. “I would ask you to reconsider,” he said slowly. “Take another holiday, perhaps?”

“No, nope. This is it. I’m done.”

“May I ask why?”

“I shot a kid. In Serbia, I shot that kid-”

“-Hardly a child-” Mycroft cut in.

“-I shot a kid in the head. Right there.” Jim pointed to his forehead. “Dead centre. Snipers around the whole bloody world would be proud of that shot. Point blank, execution. People have trained for years and not got that good.”

“Yes, I agree. That’s why you’re employed by me.”

Jim scratched the back of his head. “Yeah, boss, not anymore. I’m handing in my notice. If you want it in a fancy envelope then I’ll write a letter, but I thought you’d prefer me to be upfront and say it to your face.”

“I could find you another job,” Mycroft suggested. “I’m sure there are other areas I can…”

“No. No, I think it’s best I don’t work for you anymore.”

Mycroft narrowed his eyes. “Is it the job you have a problem with, or working for me?”

“Both.”

Mycroft paused, not expecting that reply, nor the honesty in Jim’s eyes as he said it. “Right," he breathed out, pressing his lips together.

“I killed a kid, boss. Teenager, kid, whatever, he was still less than 20 years old.” Jim pointed to his forehead again. “Dead centre. And you didn’t even flinch. Once upon a time, I didn’t flinch. Now I do. And I’d do it again, and again, and again, because you pay me to do it. But I don’t want to do it anymore, so I’m done.”

“Very well,” Mycroft said. “Will you work your notice period to train someone else?”

“Sure. Course.” Jim made to move.

“Jim, I… I consider you among the best in my staff,” Mycroft told him. “I regard you as highly as I regard Anthea. If there is anything I can do to help you in your future job prospects, then I am always too happy to help.”

“Thanks. A reference would be good.”

“Consider it done. Have you got a job lined up?”

“Yeah.”

“Doing what?”

Jim frowned. “I’d prefer not to say. When I walk out of here in four week’s time, I don’t want you to find me. I don’t want to hear from you in six months when you’ve got a job that needs doing and I’m the only one with the skills. And I’m not happy about this, ‘cause I like you and you’re a good boss, and a little bit of me is always gonna be in love with Anthea and I’ll miss her like nothing else.” Mycroft raised his eyebrows but stayed silent. “But when I leave, I’m leaving. I’m taking my missus, and our girl, and we’re leavin’ London, and I’m never going to touch a gun again. And I’d like it a lot if I never saw you again.”

Mycroft watched him for a moment then rose from his seat and held out his hand. “Consider it done,” he said.

Jim stood up and took his hand, shaking it. “You saved my life, boss. But there comes a point…”

Mycroft held his hand up to silence him. “I understand.”

Jim took a deep breath. “I think you do a lot of good. I think the country would be worse off without you. But I think you do some questionable shit too, and I’m not able to help with that anymore.”

Mycroft kept his expression impassive, though a large part of him wished more than anything that Jim had stopped talking. “There are no black and white areas when it comes to running a country. Only grey.”

Jim shrugged. “What do I know about that stuff? That was you and Anth who dealt with that. I was just the muscle.”

“You were much more than that,” Mycroft murmured. 

“And you’ll be fine without me,” Jim said. “Stay good, boss. Don’t… don’t let those bad guys turn you into one of ‘em.” Mycroft watched him leave, frowning to himself. 

* * *

He was home before Greg, and fed the kittens and ordered takeaway for them both. Greg arrived just after the curries did. One kiss from him set Mycroft’s mind at ease somewhat as they ate their dinners.

“I’m going to have to do some more work after dinner,” Greg told him, grimacing. “There’s some bug going around, we had three DIs off ill, and I lost count of how many PCs. I’ve got to take some off the work off Sally so she can actually focus on her cases.”

“You can use my office,” Mycroft offered.

Greg pulled a face. “It’s okay. Thanks though. I don’t want to ruin your system.”

Mycroft quirked a smile. “I don’t have a system. That’s what Anthea’s for. And unfortunately she does not visit my home office to keep on top of the filing.”

Greg laughed. “That’s even worse then. I’m definitely not getting involved. It’s your mess, I’m not being held responsible for losing the nuclear codes.”

Mycroft smiled. “Yes, I have a tendency to misplace those myself.”

Greg snorted and got up to wash their dishes. “Yeah, I believe it. It must drive Anthea mad when you schedule your own appointments.”

“Like you wouldn’t believe.”

“That woman needs an MBE. For assisting Mycroft Holmes, the unofficial supreme ruler of England.”

Mycroft’s smile fell. “Is that how you see me?” he asked, trying to keep his voice light.

Greg chuckled, beginning to scrub their plates. “Only when I drive home without  a single traffic light turning red,” he joked. Mycroft hummed his response, beginning to stack placemats on the table. Greg glanced back at him from over his shoulder. “Hey. What did I say?”

“Nothing,” Mycroft told him.

“Yeah, don’t give me that. You’ve gone all quiet and now you’re piling placemats on top of each other.” Greg dried his hands and stood behind the back of Mycroft’s chair, leaning down to wrap his arms around Mycroft’s shoulders from behind. He rested his chin on Mycroft’s shoulder. “I can read you like a book.”

Mycroft rubbed Greg’s arms and sighed. “Jim quit today.”

“Jim? Which one’s Jim?”

“My former driver. He has a scar on his cheek.”

“Oh, him. Yeah, I’ve noticed him.”

Mycroft managed a smile. “You think he’s attractive.”

Greg laughed and kissed Mycroft’s cheek. “Don’t you?”

“I… Yes, I suppose, in a way.”

“Why’d he quit?” Greg asked.

“He… couldn’t do it anymore. He didn’t want to be a part of the work I do.”

Greg let go of him and pulled the other chair closer, sitting down so their knees were touching and he could hold Mycroft’s hand on the table. “Which bits of the work?” Greg asked him.

“The ‘questionable’ parts,” Mycroft replied, echoing Jim’s words from earlier, staring down at their joined hands. 

“Do you do questionable things?”

Mycroft found he could not meet Greg’s eyes. “You know I do.”

“No, no, I know you do stuff that to other people _can_ seem questionable. But you do it for the right reasons, and because you have no other choice.”

“Greg…”

“Hey. Look at me.” Greg reached out and touched Mycroft’s chin. “What was the final straw for Jim?”

“He shot a teenager dead.”

“Why?”

“To help Sherlock escape.”

Greg pressed his lips together and exhaled. “So on one level he killed a teenager because your brother got himself in trouble.”

Mycroft frowned. “You’re not helping,” he muttered.

“On one level,” Greg repeated. “But why was Sherlock there? Because he wanted to take down a criminal mastermind, and save people’s lives. And what did Sherlock do the other week? He caught a terrorist and saved even more lives. Yeah, it’s shit a teenager’s dead, and it must be tough for Jim to take. I couldn’t do it. But it was you and Sherlock, or that teenager, and Jim did what he did so you and Sherlock could save England.”

“He thought the teenager had a gun. He didn’t. It was a walkie-talkie.”

“So he could call all his friends so they could kill you instead. Jim was on the right side of this, Mycroft. And so were you.”

“There aren’t… ‘bad guys’ and ‘good guys’. We’re not in a comic strip, there are no superheroes. How do you even know I’m on the right side?”

“Because the people who want to blow up London are bad, and the people who stop them are good. Do we agree on that?”

Mycroft hesitated. “Yes,” he conceded. “But am I good all the time?”

“I don’t know,” Greg said. “Maybe not. I don’t know, I don’t sit in your meetings and I don’t know what decisions you make. And sometimes it’s impossible to know what will happen next, and you just have to hope you made the right call. Sometimes I’m sure you don’t. But that’s the same for everyone. Sometimes I make the wrong call, and a suspect gets away, and they commit another crime and hurt someone else and I have to live with that and learn from it.”

“Spoken like a true manager.”

Greg squeezed his hands. “I got that from you, not from some management course. I come home and try to to switch off and not let every case get to me like I used to. So I can sleep easy. Because I can’t get it right all the time and neither can you.”

“Yes, I… I can accept that.”

Greg nudged Mycroft's knee with his own. “I’m sorry Jim’s left. But it was probably more about him doing what he needed to do rather than it being about what you’ve done. Where did you meet him?”

“At the same rehabilitation centre Sherlock was in.”

“So, he had an addiction?”

“Yes.”

“And you hired him. And you gave him a good job, with good pay and the chance to make a difference in the world. And now he needs to go to do something else. But I don’t believe for a second that he isn’t grateful for what you did for him. All your staff stick around, don’t they? I mean, how many have quit?”

“Jim’s the first,” Mycroft admitted. “Except those who lost their lives.”

“No one sticks around that long for a boss they hate or don’t believe in," Greg told him. "But people also need to do their own thing. I wouldn’t blame Sally if she moved from the Met so she could do her own thing somewhere new, create a team herself, without me hovering over her shoulder.”

Mycroft frowned. “You think I should be pleased for him.”

Greg smiled. “I think you should feel sorry he’s going, but yeah. You should be pleased for him.”

“I am. I think.”

Greg kissed his cheek. “I’ll live with ‘I think’ for now. How you feeling?”

“Better.”

“No more stacking placemats?”

Mycroft half smiled. “There are no more placemats left to stack.”

Greg laughed. “Why don’t you go and get yourself a book and sit down with it and relax for a while? And I’ll finish my work and then we can get an early night.”

“That sounds nice.”

Greg kissed him and got up. Mycroft smiled to himself and looked up as Greg kept hold of his hand. “Hey, Mycroft?” Greg said.

“Yes?”

“Thank you.”

Mycroft blinked. “What for?”

“Talking to me. Telling me what you just said and what happened at work today. Means a lot to me.”

Mycroft squeezed his fingers. “Thank you for not leaving.” 

Greg stepped closer and touched his chin and angled his face so they could share a kiss. “You don’t need to think about that anymore,” he said. 

Mycroft looked up at him. “I never meant to hurt you.”

“I know. And I never should have threatened to leave. We both did stuff wrong. And we’re both making it right. So you don’t need to think about it anymore. It’s done.” 

“Still,” Mycroft murmured. “Thank you.”

Greg flashed him a smile. “Right, let’s light a fire and find you a book.” He pulled Mycroft to his feet and led him to the living room. Mycroft read silently on one end of the settee, Greg’s feet in his lap. Mycroft glanced at him from over the top of his book, to where Greg worked, glasses perched on the end of his nose, tongue sticking out between his lips as he typed on his laptop. Mycroft watched him for a while. And he could not stop smiling.


	72. Cover-ups

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who is still reading and being patient with me. I read every comment even though I don't always have time to reply. They always mean so much.

**November 2013.**

**Location: Warwick Castle, Warwick.**

It was too cold to spend long on the castle walls admiring the surrounding countryside. Instead, Mycroft settled by the radiator in the cafe while Greg carried over a tray of teas and scones. With an amused smile, Greg patted down Mycroft’s hair. “You’re all windswept,” he said, his fingers lingering on Mycroft’s cheek.

Mycroft returned his smile and began to pour the tea. “Thank you.” Greg grinned and started spreading clotted cream on his scones. Mycroft groaned. “Don’t tell me you eat your scones the Devon way.”

Greg snorted with laughter. “I do what?”

“Cream and then jam. It’s illogical.”

“What’s the other way?”

“The Cornish way. Jam first and then you can spoon the cream on top.”

Greg laughed. “Are you serious?”

“Wars have been fought over less,” Mycroft replied. 

“Yeah. I believe that.” Greg shrugged and took a large bite out of his scone, smearing jam over his top lip. Mycroft could only smile and take a sip of his sweet tea. “Have we seen everything?” Greg asked, pulling the crumpled map out of his pocket.

Mycroft took it from him and smoothed it out. “Yes, apart from climbing the towers.”

“I’ll pass.”

“You and I would have made terrible archers, if we’d have refused to climb onto the battlements because the towers were too confined.”

Greg pulled a face. “I don’t think I’d have been an archer. Too much sitting around.”

“Would you have preferred being on horseback?”

“I’d have been useless at that too. Imagine trying to ride, trying to defend yourself and attack all at once. I’d take a battle-axe.”

“And be on foot?”

Greg hummed. “On second thoughts, I’d take an axe and a horse. I don’t really know how people did that. It must have been terrifying.”

“Yes. Sitting on the edge of a field, watching as an equally-equipped army marched towards you. I think I would have preferred to have been an archer.”

Greg sat back in his chair, licking his lips. “If you could spend a day in any period in history, what would you choose?”

Mycroft paused, considering. “I’d spend a day in Winston Churchill’s war rooms.”

“Why?”

“So I could discover his secrets. I’d find out how he balanced winning a war with looking after a country and maintaining a family.”

Greg grinned. “Trust you to say something clever.”

“Why? What would you choose?”

“The 1966 World Cup.”

Mycroft laughed and passed the jam back to Greg. “Apologies. I would have chosen the first performance of King Lear, had I known I was supposed to choose something more pleasant.”

“Any particular Churchill meeting?”

“No.” Mycroft hesitated. “Well, perhaps… when he chose to attack the French fleet.”

“I thought we fought with the French?”

“Yes, until they fell to Germany and surrendered. Then Churchill had to decide whether to trust a French admiral, who said they would never surrender French ships to the Nazis… or to ensure they never joined the German navy by destroying them himself. More than 1,000 Frenchmen died.”

Greg’s eyebrows rose. “He chose to attack the French ships?”

“Yes. Britain may have been invaded, had those ships fallen into Hitler’s hands. But perhaps the French admiralty would have kept them from him. We will never know. But I wish I had been a fly on the wall, to hear the moment he decided Britain had to destroy our allies. I wish I knew how men like him make the decisions they make… and still remain on the right side of history.”

“I bet Churchill’s not on the right side of history in France.”

“Probably not,” Mycroft conceded. He finished his scones and then looked up at Greg who had fallen silent, frowning. “What’s wrong?”

“Do you think we’re on the right side of history?”

“I think you are,” Mycroft ventured. 

“Do you think you are?”

“Ask me again after they vote on the Anti-Terrorism and Investigatory Powers Bill.”

“Do you think the MPs are going to go for it?”

Mycroft sighed, passing the last bit of his scone over to Greg to finish for him. “I know they will.”

“And what happens if they do?”

“Our lives are in the hands of the Government.”

“Oh, come on,” Greg scoffed. “It’ll give the Spooks a few more powers, but you can’t tell me they don’t do that stuff anyway.” Mycroft stayed silent. “It’ll make it easier for me to get a warrant. It’ll make it easier for me to catch criminals.”

“It’ll make it easier for you to search people’s homes,” Mycroft said. “The homes belonging to protesters, journalists who publish stories the Government isn’t fond of, the homes of those who write a few angry comments online.”

“That wouldn’t happen. I mean, it could but…”

“Some journalists at some newspapers hacked phones. Do you think the Government doesn’t want some retribution for that? The Government will want power over regulating the press. Journalists who get wind of some great political scandal will be afraid to publish their stories.”

“Because of this anti-terrorism bill?”

Mycroft wrinkled his nose. “No, not because of it, but it’s happening simultaneously. It’s a perfect storm. Before the Bonfire Night bomb, 32 per cent of people were in favour of the anti-terrorism bill. Now it stands at 68 per cent. People are scared. But they needn’t be. The perception of terrorism is higher than actual incidents of terrorism. But now the Government has public support for its bill. In the meantime, journalists are testifying in front of a Joint Select Committee investigating how the press supposedly ruins people’s lives, while forgetting and ignoring the vital role a free press plays in keeping us free.”

“And what are you going to do?”

“Nothing,” Mycroft murmured. “I’m not going to do anything, but watch the bill go through.”

“Why?”

“Because I can’t stop it. And the only thing which could, would be if I went to the press and told them everything I do and everything I know, and even that would likely be too late. And I’m not a law-maker, Greg. I shouldn’t be able to stop a bill which 68 per cent of people support.” 

Greg fiddled with his watch. “But someone has to stand up and say ‘no’ at some point. Why not you?”

“I’m powerless to-”

Greg snorted. “-Powerless? You’re never powerless. You just decide not to do something.” 

“Then in this case, I decide to do nothing. Clearly I’m not as decisive as Churchill.” 

Greg reached across the table and took hold of his hand. “Sorry I brought the mood down.”

“You didn’t. You asked a relevant question. It’s my fault I can’t answer it the way I would like to.” 

“Gift shop?” Greg asked. 

Mycroft smiled. “Yes,” he agreed, stacking their plates and cups away on the tray. They spent another hour retracing their steps around the castle before visiting the city centre for dinner. They dined in a French restaurant and debated world affairs and made plans for where they would visit next time they took a holiday. They remained engrossed in conversation until the waiters hovered by their table. 

Taking the hint, they held hands as they wandered to their hotel, taking detours as they went, as though unwilling to arrive at their final destination. But even bundled up as they were in thick wool coats and scarves and gloves, they were beaten by the cold and returned to their room. They were still laughing at some joke Greg had made, the content already forgotten but the joy lasting with them, as they got inside. 

Greg peeled off both their gloves, taking Mycroft’s hands between his own and rubbing them and blowing his warm breath onto them. Greg’s lips found Mycroft’s first, his mouth warmer than Mycroft’s own. The kiss was soft and fleeting, and he left his lips hovering. Mycroft initiated the next kiss, though it remained light and gentle as he lifted his hands to Greg’s scarf and untied it. Their mouths followed each other, each meeting lightly and for mere seconds. But each touch was savoured, delighted in, as Greg untied Mycroft’s scarf and left his cool fingers brushing against Mycroft’s jaw and neck. They met one another’s eyes in a wordless confirmation of affection and stepped closer together. Greg’s lips found the corner of Mycroft’s mouth, and began a trail of kisses down his chin and along his jaw, dipping down to that spot just right of his throat, that spot which had Mycroft’s lips parting in a silent sigh. 

They unbuttoned each other’s coats without rushing, still meeting one another in tender kisses. Mycroft was half-aware of how hard he was already, but he was too intoxicated by Greg’s presence to do anything about it. Their coats were discarded, left to drape over the back of a chair. Firm hands rested against Mycroft’s stomach and then smoothed upwards, as though searching the shape of his body through the layers of clothing. 

Greg’s nose brushed against the side of Mycroft’s neck, and Mycroft allowed the seduction to continue at Greg’s pace, his eyes falling closed as he focused on the areas where they touched. Somehow the stillness was more electrifying than any frantic undressing and hurried search for friction could ever have been. 

Mycroft let his hands wander from Greg’s hips, up his sides, fingers brushing over those ticklish areas causing Greg to laugh against his neck. The kissing resumed, as slow and steady as it had been before, even while Greg unfastened Mycroft’s jacket and waistcoat. 

They’d had sex any number of times since Mycroft had returned from fetching Sherlock, and already Mycroft knew this was different somehow. Greg’s lips seemed to be everywhere, just the faintest of touches as they found the shell of Mycroft’s ear, the pulse in his neck, the corner of his eyebrow. Mycroft could just touch in return, kissing Greg’s skin where he could, his hands tracing the muscles on a strong chest, the hardness of his collarbones, the rigidness of his spine. 

Clothes were shed more slowly than Mycroft could believe. Greg was never the most patient of men, and, even in bed, he sought seek skin-on-skin contact as soon as possible. Now, though, he seemed almost unwilling to deprive Mycroft of his shirt as he rubbed the fine fabric between his fingertips and let each button fall open minutes after the last. 

Shifting his weight from one foot to another in a fruitless effort to ease the tightness in his trousers, Mycroft did nothing to discourage Greg’s meanderings. He would never deprive him this, whatever it was Greg needed and wanted. And Mycroft could not complain anyway, at being touched with such careful reverence. 

They made it to the bed only when their shirts had been discarded, each toeing off their own shoes and socks. They lay on their sides, kissing and tracing patterns on each other’s chests and backs. Mycroft regarded Greg with an expression of wonderment, until Greg shifted forward and pressed their bodies together. And Mycroft could not stop the helpless groan which escaped his mouth, the way he arched into it, his fingers digging into Greg’s hip, desperate for the connection to last. 

Greg let out a pleased laugh, as though satisfied he had managed to reduce Mycroft to some desperate mess with little more than caresses and the lightest of kisses. 

For a short while, Mycroft thought Greg might leave him that way, so hard he positively ached, and so strung out he could barely find the words to form a sentence. He was nearly at that point already, but Greg took pity on him, undressing him with the same care as before, but with also more speed. 

Greg guided Mycroft onto his back and stretched out over him, just as naked, just as aroused. Their cocks pressed together, and Greg poured some lubricant between them, Mycroft getting a handful of his round backside, groping the flesh, urging him to move. But Greg stayed still and laughed and kissed him, deep and wet, Mycroft melting into it. He was surrounded and consumed by Greg, who stayed so still, but for the tiny pulses from his hips, his breath hot against Mycroft’s mouth. 

Mycroft was drunk with pleasure, touching Greg wherever he could reach. And Greg still kissed and stroked him with dizzying affection, like Mycroft was some precious thing, some treasured, valued thing. Mycroft’s orgasm seemed to build from no where at all, his thoughts blurring with the only words he could manage, just ‘yes’ and ‘please’. Greg pressed their foreheads together, and Mycroft stared up at him, hands in his hair, on his neck, on his back. Greg rolled his hips, and he was there with Mycroft, right there, his moans leaving his mouth, caught between breaths and gritted teeth. Mycroft was trembling, holding Greg’s skull between his hands, drinking in his kisses and satisfying himself by moving too. 

Greg’s hips stuttered, and Mycroft brought a hand down between them, curling it around Greg’s slick cock, stroking him through the aftershocks. Moments later, Greg’s lips were spread around Mycroft’s prick as he took him as deep as he could and Mycroft couldn’t hold on, his climax stolen from him as he gripped his hair and the sheets and spilled himself into his lover’s mouth. 

Greg pillowed his head on Mycroft’s stomach, and Mycroft stroked his hair as he got his breath back. They kissed with lazy satisfaction, and lay awake for a while, wrapped up tightly in one another’s embrace. 

* * *

**December 2013.**

**Location: The Houses Of Parliament, Westminster, London.**

Lady Smallwood’s office was very close to the House Of Commons. It was the same office Andrew Regis had used, though it now smelt of fresh flowers and papers were stacked in neat piles rather than stuffed into drawers. Mycroft was waiting for her when she left the House Of Commons after the vote. She hardly blinked when she saw him there, just shut the door behind her and offered him a cup of tea.

“Congratulations,” Mycroft said coolly, watching her. “The Prime Minister got everything he wanted.”

Lady Smallwood pursed her lips. “I’m his Home Secretary. I do what I am asked to do.”

“You’re Home Secretary because of me,” Mycroft pointed out. “I didn’t push you towards that job so you could pass legislation like you did today.”

He watched her own resentment flicker over her features. She was a woman of control, a member of the British elite who came from the school of stiff upper lips, but she was not one adept at masking her emotions. “I did what I could to water it down,” she said. 

“Not enough.”

“What would you have had me do?” she asked, as she passed him a gingernut biscuit and poured them both a cup of tea. “Threaten to resign? The Prime Minister would have let me.”

Mycroft knew she was right. He knew the Prime Minister would have chosen someone as despicable as Andrew Regis to be his new Home Secretary in her place. “What happens next?” he asked. 

“We already know we have support in the House Of Lords. The bill will pass. Your office will be the first to get everything this new bill allows you to have. I’ll contact your staff myself, to make sure the technology is readily available to you at your… secret headquarters, before MI5 and SIS and GCHQ get their fingers on it.”

“Why?” Mycroft asked.

“Because according to the Prime Minister you could single-handedly destroy this Government. And he is very willing to keep you on-side.”

Mycroft rose to his feet, the biscuit uneaten. “We’re missing something,” he said. “Lord Moran made that bill worse. His amendments and suggestions are on almost every page of that document you passed today. Do you think that’s a coincidence?”

“Yes, I do,” she replied. “Lord Moran is an unhinged individual, currently enjoying time at Her Majesty’s pleasure. The psychiatric tests are all showing he was incredibly troubled. Another document you will soon be able to access without a problem, thanks to our legislation.”

Mycroft clenched his teeth. “Thank you for your time.”

“I’m sorry we couldn’t achieve what you wanted,” she said to his back. “But I am Home Secretary. And the procedures included in this bill cannot be enacted without going through me.”

“The Prime Minister will have you do what he wants, or he’ll see you gone,” Mycroft pointed out.

“I don’t answer to the Prime Minister on security matters. I answer to Hugh, and to Nadia, and Ruth. And remind me again, who do they answer to?” Lady Smallwood gave him an icy smile. “The bill has passed, just as we suspected it would. But the power is all yours, Mycroft. Not theirs.” 

* * *

Mycroft could not deny the bill had its advantages, no matter how much he wanted to. The security services would soon have access to information they did not have before. And GCHQ could continue to do what it always had done - only now it could do so legally. They were further from scrutiny than they ever had been.

Still, he could not shake the feeling that something was not quite right. 

He spent Christmas Eve at Baker Street, against his will. He was all-but-dragged there by Greg, who told him it was good for Sherlock, or something equally guilt-inducing. Mycroft thought Sherlock would prefer it if he stayed as far away as possible. 

He was introduced to Mary Morstan, who by all accounts, carried herself like an open book. She had brought some homemade bread and cakes, and even made Sherlock smile. But something… something didn’t sit with Mycroft. 

He stayed quiet in John’s chair, ignoring his surroundings and the chatter. Mrs Hudson carried round trays of treats and sweet mulled wine and Mycroft watched them all. After an hour, Molly wandered over with two large glasses of red wine. “It’s from Greg,” she said, handing one to him.

Mycroft looked over to the kitchen and held the glass up. Greg grinned at him and continued his conversation with John. “Thank you,” Mycroft said to Molly.

“How are you?”

“Fine, thank you. And yourself?”

“I’m good.” She held her ring up. “Engaged.”

“So I see. Congratulations.”

“He’s normal,” Molly said, a little too quickly. 

A small smile played on the corner of Mycroft’s mouth. “I’m glad to hear it.”

Molly’s shy grin faded. “I don’t mean… that everyone here isn’t normal.”

“I didn’t think you implied anything of the sort. Although, it wouldn’t be wrong to say this is an unusual group of people.”

“Yes, I suppose so.” Molly laughed and fiddled with her ring. “Anyway. I just wanted to bring the wine.”

“Thank you.”

“Do you need anything else? The mince pies are amazing. And Mary brought cakes with these little iced snowmen on.”

“I’m fine, thank you.”

Molly smiled again and took a long swig from her glass, looking over at Sherlock. “He seems okay, don’t you think? Sort of. I mean, not quite right but… I think he’s okay.”

Mycroft glanced over at his brother, who was waxing lyrical about some ridiculous case of his. “I imagine I don’t need to ask you to look out for him.”

“Of course. When I can. But I am engaged so I can’t always… but if you need me to do something specific…?” She almost looked hopeful. 

“No, no.” Mycroft patted her arm. “Just do as you always do.” Mycroft made brief small-talk with John before Greg caught his eye and they made their excuses. 

“Did you enjoy yourself?” Greg asked when they got home, stripping his clothes off.

Mycroft hesitated. “I…”

Greg laughed. “Well, at least you were there.”

“I spoke to Molly and John.”

“And how was that?” 

“I prefer talking to you.”

“Well, that’s a given, I hope,” Greg said, grinning as he slid under the covers. “Are you joining me?”

Mycroft hesitated, fully intending to look up Mary Morstan. But deciding it would wait, he began to take off his own clothes. “It’s rather early for bed,” he pointed out.

Greg grinned at him, one hand sliding down his own chest and under the covers. “Yeah. But I wasn’t thinking we’d be doing any sleeping.” 

A slow smile spread over Mycroft’s face. And he joined him in bed. 

* * *

They both returned to work on Boxing Day. The Coeur de Lion Offices were emptier than usual, most of the staff still enjoying the Christmas period. Mycroft locked himself away in his office, finally able to sit down and answer the questions which had been nagging on his mind.

He knew where Miss Morstan worked. She was an NHS employee, and it was easy to find her details in the NHS’ database. But her National Insurance number had only existed for six years. And there was nothing linked to it. No date of birth, no address… It was only a name and a number. 

Mycroft frowned at his screen. He went through every record he could think of. He tracked down a driver’s licence and a passport. But those were only six years old. Delving deeper into MI5 and MI6’s systems, Mycroft managed to find proof of a change of identity, a change authorised by someone in the security services. But there was nothing there but a string of numbers, proof of a change but not who had done it. 

By-passing the security on MI5’s database, Mycroft found the requisite files in a system so secret it only existed for a few select people. He expected to find everything. He expected to find out she was formerly an employee of the security services herself, or perhaps an undercover policewoman. Instead there was only one file. He opened it. 

A PDF filled his screen. It was a colour photograph. It showed a poster, words painted in red. _Some other time, Detective Inspector Lestrade_ , it said. 

He stared at it. He remembered that day, when Greg crashed into the Thames, just one of a number of attempts on his life during the time when Rickard Luck was doing everything to get to Mycroft. Luck was paying Moriarty. And paying… “Sebastian Moran,” Mycroft muttered to himself. Curious, Mycroft searched for John Watson. He found everything on him. Somehow Mary was linked to Moriarty. She was now a part of their lives, and it was not, could not be, a coincidence. 

He was shaken when he got home, but he told Greg what had happened. He reacted much as expected - frustrated and confused and asking questions Mycroft, despairing, had no answers to. 

* * *

**January 2014.**

**Location: Coeur de Lion Offices, Mayfair, London.**

“I remember when we first heard about Moran,” Anthea said as she and Mycroft went over the information again, double-checking and triple-checking Mycroft hadn’t missed something. “Hadrian Kirkudbright would have done a background check on him when he employed him.”

“And he would have found the information he needed. They would inevitably have been fake documents, but documents nonetheless. I suspect Moriarty had an insider… Well, we already know Danny Finck was on his side. I suppose he was competent enough to fool Hadrian.”

“I would guess so,” Anthea replied.

“We never found any pictures of Moran, did we?”

“No. I don’t think we ever found out much. Irene Adler said he was a soldier.”

“She _guessed_ he was a soldier.”

“A sniper,” Anthea murmured. 

“Yes.” 

“You could try Irene Adler again.”

Mycroft frowned. “I don’t trust her.”

“All the information she has provided since we relocated her has been true and useful. What have you got to lose?”

A lot, Mycroft thought, knowing Irene Adler enjoyed a negotiation as much as she enjoyed her high heels and wielding power over him. But after a couple of days, Mycroft gave in and told Anthea to contact her. 

Irene Adler was basking in the sun in a courtyard garden when Mycroft began a video call with her three weeks after that. Dressed in a straw hat and chiffon scarf, sipping from a glass of something fizzy from a straw, she looked like a film star from a bygone era. She flashed him a half smile, standing up and walking into a villa, holding her phone so Mycroft could see inside.

Mycroft rolled his eyes to himself. “Of course I’m delighted you’re living the life of luxury at the expense of taxpaying public,” he said. 

Irene stretched out along a chaise lounge and shot him a descendant smile. “I resent that. I’ve been working extremely hard.”

“Yes, I can tell.”

She tutted. “Now, now, Mr Holmes. Do you want my information or not?”

“Do you have any?”

“I wouldn’t have gone to the trouble of getting in contact with you if I didn’t.”

“I suspect you have more protection than I have ever had. You didn’t have to travel half way around the world just for a phone call.”

Irene had another sip of her drink “I suppose not. But still. I couldn’t take the risk. Besides, the rich and the famous all come to St Barts. It’s a hive of information.”

“But you weren’t there three weeks ago.”

“No, I was in Mexico three weeks ago. And then I went to South Africa after your assistant contacted me.”

“What was in South Africa?”

She tapped her nails against her glass. “Let’s talk about my fee.”

Mycroft narrowed his eyes. “You are living in a villa costing close to £200 a night. Somehow I don’t think this is a good time to talk about payment.”

Irene sighed. “You don’t understand what it’s like. All their secrets are so… mundane. My clients used to be politicians and royals and now they’re all… actors and directors. Their secrets aren’t worth nearly as much.”

“I’m sure there are some newspaper owners who would disagree with you.”

She smiled. “Still, I’ve done some digging on Moran," she said. "He’s off the grid, he has been since you brought Sherlock home. He isn’t in London. In fact, he isn’t in the UK at all, as far as I can tell.”

“You travelled from South Africa to St Bart’s to tell me he isn’t in the UK?”

She didn’t even try to be coy. “Yes.”

Mycroft glared at his computer screen. “Then you have nothing to tell me.”

“I didn’t say that, did I? I know his name. His real name.”

Mycroft was sceptical. “How?”

“There is a British sniper living in South Africa. Well, former sniper, he’s a virtual recluse these days, and spends his time looking after rhinos.”

“Yes,” Mycroft murmured. “He’s done some work for me in the past.”

“He knew Moran.” She tilted her head. “Well. He knew him by reputation. You see, our South African friend was brought into Moran’s regiment as his replacement. He had big, big shoes to step into.”

“What’s his name, Miss Adler?”

“Sebastian Cormack. Look for the Household Cavalry Regiment.” 

“Thank you.”

“Eventually you’ll have to find a way for me to return home. No one can live like this forever. I’m a ghost, Mycroft. And you and I both know I am not suited to being invisible.”

Mycroft regarded her for a moment. “When I can, yes, I will see what I can do.”

She smiled at him. “Until next time,” she said, before leaning forward and ending the call. 

Mycroft searched for Sebastian Cormack, and, unsurprisingly, came up with nothing. He suspected the files had been deleted. He expanded his search, but without a name or a image of him, he ended up searching through every possible living Sebastian, with no resolution. 

It was Mads’ suggestion to try the paper files. Mycroft found himself at the Ministry of Defence’s Main Building in Whitehall, searching through personnel files. When he found the name in the list, he could hardly believe his eyes. Sebastian Cormack existed. 

He had sandy blond hair, and electric green eyes. He looked… normal. There was certainly nothing unhinged-looking about him, not in that picture of him from very early on in his army career. Mycroft skim-read his military history. He was eight years older than Mycroft, and had served in the Falklands, Kosovo and Afghanistan. And then… nothing. Nothing explained where he went after February 2002. 

Pocketing the picture, and a list of those Moran served with, Mycroft put everything away again. 

Mads used facial recognition software to search through CCTV images, but they all knew it would take at least a week to go through them all. Back at the office, he, Mads and Anthea began checking the backgrounds of every soldier Moran had served and trained with. It was tedious work, none of them sure what exactly they were looking for. 

“Can’t we ask Defence Intelligence for the information?” Anthea asked.

Mycroft closed a file on his computer, ticking the name off on his list. “No. No one can know what we’re looking for.”

Anthea yawned. “I’ve got to go home,” she said. “Arnou says he hasn’t seen me in days. He’s wrong but I should probably get home earlier than 10pm one of these days.”

Mycroft hummed his agreement. “Greg would have said the same, but he’s been working as much as we have this…” He trailed off as he opened the next personnel file on his list. 

“Well, Greg’s a busy boy,” Anthea continued, collecting their mugs and putting them on a tray. “Do you want another drink before I go?”

Mycroft stared at his computer. “Anthea…”

“Yes?”

“Rory Moran,” he muttered. 

“Who?” She walked over and leaned on the desk. “That looks like…”

“It’s Lord Moran’s brother,” Mycroft murmured. “Younger brother. It says he died, but doesn’t specify where, why or how.”

“He served with Sebastian Cormack?” Anthea asked.

“Apparently.” Mycroft scrolled through the details. “It says he reported his superiors on various assault allegations. A couple of colonels were dismissed from the army not long after Rory died in February 2002.” 

“I’ve found a newspaper report for his inquest,” Mads said. 

Anthea slipped her coat off and took it from the printer. She read it. “The coroner said Rory hanged himself.” She frowned. “Can you access the coroner’s reports?”

Mycroft rubbed his forehead. “I believe so, but it might take a while.” He turned to her. “Go home. We’ll talk about this in a couple of days.”

“Are you sure it can wait?”

“It’ll have to.” He checked his watch. “I’m going home. I won’t be at work tomorrow, but I want everything you can get for me the following day.”

* * *

The next day, he drove to his parents’ house. He kissed his mother on the cheek and handed her a bouquet of flowers. “Happy birthday,” he said. He followed her to the kitchen.

“Pity Greg couldn’t come with you,” she replied, searching for a vase. 

Mycroft poured the boiled water into a teapot. “He had work, I’m afraid.” He carried the tray to the kitchen, smiling at his father. He glanced at the pile of boxes by the fireplace. “You’ve been having a clear-out.”

“Yes, we went to…” His father raised his hands. “We’ll talk about it later.” 

Mycroft frowned and poured them both a cup of tea. They made small-talk for a while, about work and the Christmas just gone, before there was a knock on the door. Mycroft tensed. “Were we expecting a guest?” he asked. 

His mother went to get the door. “You didn’t tell me Mycroft was going to be here,” Sherlock bemoaned before he even entered the living room. 

“Be nice,” their mother scolded. “Neither of you came for Christmas, the least you can do is come for dinner.”

Sherlock stepped into the living room, his coat slung over his arm. He threw at Mycroft. Mycroft pulled a face, folding it up. “Happy new year, Sherlock,” he muttered, biting into a biscuit. 

Sherlock said nothing more as he drank some tea and listened to their parents discuss their lives. They sat down for a chicken and mushroom pie, with green beans and cabbage. 

“What’s going on?” Sherlock finally asked, when the food was served. 

Their mother shook her head. “Let’s eat dinner first.”

Sherlock put his knife and fork down. Their parents exchanged an exasperated look. 

“We’re here to talk about the old house,” father admitted. 

Mycroft frowned, looking between them. “The old house?”

“Let’s eat dinner, shall we?” mummy said. “We can talk about this later.” 

Sherlock smiled knowingly. “You’re selling the old house, and you invited us here so we would consent. You knew I’d say yes, and you knew Mycroft would say no.”

Mycroft shot Sherlock a look. “Why are you selling it?” he asked his parents. 

“It’s a drain on our finances, Mycroft,” father said. “And it’s time.”

Mycroft took a long breath before having a bite of his dinner. He chewed it over while the rest of his family watched him. “It’s time,” he murmured. “I know it is.”

“We’ve taken everything we want from it,” mummy said. “We took the last photographs and books we wanted, but there’s still time for you both to take your final possessions.”

“We want you both to have the money from the sale,” father said. “We will take a fifth, and the rest is to share between you. All we ask is that you use the money wisely, and continue to do good with your lives.”

Sherlock shrugged and tucked into his food. 

“Mycroft?” his mother asked. 

“I’ll go there next weekend.” He cut into his pie, staring down at his plate.

There was a long silence before Sherlock let out an exasperated sigh. “Why do you care so much?”

Mycroft glared at him. “The house has belonged to the Holmes family for hundreds of years. I don’t relish the prospect of it going into someone else’s hands to be turned into a hotel or a residential home.” 

“At least if it’s a hotel, you can stay there again,” Sherlock said.

Mycroft hummed. “Let’s change the subject,” he murmured. 

* * *

His bad mood carried him home, to where Greg was already in bed reading a book. Mycroft collapsed into bed beside him, monosyllabic in answer to Greg’s questions as he glared at the wall. Greg kissed his head and continued reading.

“They’re selling Oak Manor,” Mycroft finally told him, frowning at the wall.

Greg turned to him. “And are we… sad about that?”

“No.”

“Angry?”

“No.”

“But we’re not happy.”

“No, we’re not happy.”

Greg closed his book and shuffled closer, resting his nose against Mycroft’s temple. “Which part of it is bothering you?”

“I’m.” Mycroft frowned down at his hands. He had argued it was losing the house’s heritage which bothered him. But he realised it wasn’t even that. “I was a child there. I was happy there.” He was innocent there. He hadn’t been afraid of anything. Well, except Sherrinford and Sherlock when they got in a certain mood, but he’d never been afraid of them, exactly, more frustrated. He thought he was going to be a veterinarian, because he rescued a baby duck from a hole once. He thought he was going to be a palaeontologist on the side, and write best-selling books about dinosaurs. Those dreams seemed to have died when they left Oak Manor. 

“Mycroft?” Greg prompted.

“Sorry. I was just thinking.”

“I know. I wondered what you were thinking about.”

“They should sell it. I know they should sell it.”

“But?”

“It was my first home.” Mycroft frowned and turned his grandfather’s ring round on his finger. “It was my only home.”

“What d’you mean?”

“I mean… I never felt at home at my parent’s cottage. I went to boarding school, university, America… I was never at home there.”

“What about here?” Greg asked. 

“It feels like a home now.”

Greg kissed his cheek. “You should go and see it before it goes up for sale.” 

“I will.” 

“I’ll come with you if you want me to.”

“I know. I suppose I should have known this was coming. Everything changes eventually.”

Greg hummed and kissed his neck. “Not everything,” he murmured, wrapping an arm around Mycroft’s shoulders. Managing a half smile, Mycroft leaned into him and closed his eyes while Greg returned to his book.

* * *

 

Mads had dark circles under his eyes, his hair an unruly mess, and his tie was long-since abandoned on top of a lamp (thankfully switched off) when Mycroft returned to work. He passed Mycroft a folder, with post-it-notes stuck on almost every page. 

“I think it best you explain to me what I’m looking at,” Mycroft told him, closing the folder. “You have a brilliant brain, Mads, but it is non-linear at best, and I don’t really have time to decipher this.”

Mads shot him a rueful grin. “I might’ve got carried away with the post-it-notes.”

“I would agree.”

Mads wandered to Mycroft’s desk and opened the folder again. “I started by investigating Rory Moran’s career. He is definitely Lord Moran’s younger brother, and neither of them ever showed any indications of terrorist sympathies until Lord Moran put that bomb under Parliament. Rory served well in the forces, no disciplinaries, no complaints against his record. And one night, he took his own life. I managed to get hold of the coroner’s report, and an army report. They don’t match up.”

Mycroft frowned. “What changed?”

“In the chief medical examiner’s report to the coroner, it said he had injuries consistent with hanging, and no other injuries. But the army medic, who wrote the first report, said he had injuries sustained from being strangled, and then being hung up afterwards. He also had bruising, consistent with a heavy beating.”

“Was there an army report to go along with this?” 

“No,” Mads said. “But Rory’s major was killed two days later in a friendly fire incident. A captain was also injured, and then dismissed from the army for undisclosed reasons, along with two colonels. Sebastian Cormack was pulled out of Afghanistan the next day, and disciplined. But those records are missing too.”

“Rory Moran was beaten and strangled, and someone hung him up to look like a suicide.”

Mads nodded. “I think so.”

“And then Sebastian killed the captain. Perhaps he was getting revenge for Rory. Perhaps he was covering his own tracks after killing Rory.”

“I think he killed those responsible,” Mads said. “I think he took action against those who killed Rory, and then…”

“And then someone covered it up.” Mycroft frowned. “And Sebastian Cormack changed his name to Sebastian Moran.” He would have to think about what that meant later. “How is the facial recognition for Sebastian going?”

“I now have CCTV stills going back to 2012. He’s good though. He doesn’t get caught on camera often. He seems to slip into those spaces where no one will spot him, or the cameras are disconnected or damaged. He doesn’t go out in public much. Except… there’s something you’re not going to like.” 

Mycroft followed Mads to his laptop, where he began accessing the folders with CCTV pictures. They were all carefully labelled, and Mads had even begun drawing a map for Moran’s movements. 

He opened the folder for 2012, and went through them until there were images of Moran entering a bar. He spent a couple of hours sitting at it, until eventually he was joined by… Mycroft froze. “Greg,” he muttered. They were sat next to each other. Moran was clearly watching him, though the pictures were too grainy to show if they spoke. 

But some time while Sherlock was gone, before Mycroft and Greg had reunited, Moran had been on Greg’s tail, and Mycroft never knew. No one knew. And he knew he could blame himself for that, over and over, but no one knew who Moran was, no one knew what he looked like, so how could it be his fault? But if Greg was in danger then, then the chances were he was in danger still. 

Moran was biding his time. He was waiting. Waiting for something. Waiting for the pieces to align, for the right time to wreak havoc. And Mycroft was not going to sit idly by and wait. He was going to act. And he was going to start by getting himself and Greg out of Crusader House as quickly as possible. 

* * *

It made financial sense for them to move, Mycroft decided, as he considered how much he had in the bank and in investments. And Crusader House was much too small for them, especially if he took all the books from Oak Manor.

“We might look for somewhere new to live,” Mycroft suggested to Greg. 

Greg frowned at him. “Somewhere new?”

“Yes. A house somewhere in London, perhaps with an office each.”

“You want us to find a house?” Greg repeated.

“What do you think?”

Greg began to smile, a wide and uninhibited thing. “I think it’s a great idea.”

“Excellent. What sort of thing would you like?”

“A really big bed.”

Mycroft chuckled. “I’m sure that goes without saying.” Mycroft kissed him, instinctively knowing this was the right step for their relationship. “I’ll start to assess our needs for a new home.”

“You’re the best,” Greg said, before frowning. “This doesn’t have anything to do with Moran does it?”

Mycroft inwardly tensed, but he shook his head. “No. No, it just seems like the right time.”

Greg kissed him again, that smile returning. “You’re right. It is.”

* * *

**February 2014.**

**Location: Crusader House, Pall Mall, London.**

With a bank of well-organised images of Sebastian Moran at his disposal, Mycroft began to plan his next moves. It began with Sherlock. He spent a fortnight trying to convince Sherlock to see him, but his brother was being as stubborn as he ever had. Mycroft arrived at Baker Street only to be ignored or for Sherlock to saunter out and leave him standing there. He tried John, who found Sherlock’s antics quite amusing.  

But finally, with the promise of information, Mycroft managed to coax Sherlock to Crusader House. He made them both a drink, and presented the picture of Sebastian Moran. Sherlock grunted. “That’s him then.”

“Yes, that’s him,” Mycroft replied. “Have you seen him before?” 

“Nope. That doesn’t mean I haven’t walked past him.” 

“I suspect he’s still after you.”

Sherlock smirked. “He’ll have to get to the back of the queue. I’ve got a client list as long as my arm.” 

“Sherlock, this is very serious. He is a trained killer. He is remorseless-”

“-You have plenty of trained killers at your disposal.”

“I have reason to believe he has some sort of… interest in Mary Morstan. I’m not ruling out the possibility they are working together.”

Sherlock scoffed. “Mary?”

“Yes, Mary.”

“Why?”

“Because all information relating to her was deleted, and this…” He passed Sherlock a piece of paper showing the poster. “Was all that was left.”

Sherlock at least appeared half-interested. “That’s an old poster. From… when Lestrade was injured.”

“Correct.”

They both looked up as Greg walked in, hanging his coat up and frowning at them both. “What’s going on?” he asked. 

“Mycroft’s being ridiculous,” Sherlock shot out. “And I’m here against my will.”

Mycroft snorted. “Hardly. You could leave at any moment.”

Sherlock grinned and rose from his seat. “Excellent. I’ll be-”

“-Sherlock,” Mycroft snapped.

Sherlock slumped back into the chair. “Then will you get to the point? I’m very busy and important.”

“Oh yes,” Mycroft said, his eyes flicking to his shirt. “You have rabbits to dissect.”

“Hares,” Sherlock replied.

“Anyway,” Mycroft said, sipping his drink. “You really haven’t noticed anything… untoward? Deduced anything suspect?”

“No,” Sherlock said. “She’s fine.”

“Are you certain?” Mycroft asked.

“Why?” Sherlock asked. “What did you see?”

“Far more than you did, it appears. You must be losing your touch.”

Sherlock glared at him. “I’m not losing anything.”

“You failed to deduce mine and Greg’s relationship.”

Sherlock laughed and shook his head. “Probably because I didn’t want to notice it.”

“Hang on,” Greg cut in, crossing his arms. “You two are better are taking a look at someone and knowing everything about them than anyone else in the world. And you can’t even agree about Mary.”

“She’s fine,” Sherlock said. “I’ve seen her a number of times. I’ve never deduced anything which concerns me.”

“Very well,” Mycroft said. “Though, perhaps you could involve yourself in the guestlist for the wedding? Report back if you stumble across something which… concerns you.”

“I’m not getting involved in the wedding.”

“Sherlock,” Mycroft warned. “You’ve been in London not even half a year and John’s already been abducted once. Even if the problem is not Mary herself, is it not worth finding out who she acquaints herself with?”

“Fine. I’ll investigate the guestlist. And you’re not coming.”

“I have no wishes to attend,” Mycroft said. “Marriage is an out-dated ritual. Greg and I live perfectly contentedly without a need for it.”

“Good for you,” Sherlock muttered. “Because even if you did, I wouldn’t go.”

“You’re assuming you’d be invited.”

“Whatever. I’m leaving.” 

Mycroft stared after him, taking a long breath. Greg took a seat beside him, their shoulders pressing together. “I explained the Moran situation,” Mycroft said. “But I didn’t tell Sherlock that Mary Morstan didn’t exist until relatively recently. Knowing Sherlock, he’d confront her and we’d be back to square one.”

He stared down at his hands, uneasy.

* * *

**March 2014.**

**Location: Ernst & Young, Financial Accounting Advisory Services, Fleet Street, London. **

He spent an afternoon ironing out his finances. With Oak Manor now on the market, he expected a windfall, one which would help himself and Greg buy their home together. He had a new will in place, to ensure Greg would inherit a large share. He left some money to the Natural History Museum, and more split between his parents and Sherlock.

And he completed the purchase of a small cottage in Yorkshire, one hidden in the tiny village Low Row in the Yorkshire Dales. This was to be his safehouse. He ensured the land was not in his name. He used one of the old identities he had set up for himself many years ago, one not even MI5 or SIS knew about. 

He hoped he would never need to use it but it was useful to have. Just in case. 


	73. Blind Spots

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for being AWOL. I read every comment and I love them and I'm so grateful. Creativity deserted me. Hopefully it's making a return so I can swiftly finish the final three chapters. Enjoy. I hope. I hope people are still reading this :-|

**April 2014.**

**Location: Oak Manor, Oxfordshire.**

The world continued to turn, potential terrorists were caught, plots were halted. Mycroft’s attentions were, as ever, divided between his self-appointed positions and responsibilities. If he was tired, he didn’t give it much consideration.

They put an offer on a house; Cedar Court in Kennsington, a red-brick building with dark beams on the frontage. It had fallen into some disrepair, with dust covering the windowsills, and paper half-ripped off the walls. Yet it had character. It was imperfect, and needed a fresh lick of paint. But it would be theirs to re-build as they wanted.

If Mycroft’s personal life was a chess board, this would be his final move. It would be the place he could escape to, when his work gave him a headache, when world leaders drove him to distraction, he could return home to peace and to Greg. With Oak Manor on the market, it was time to let his past go. Start again. 

He told Greg as little about Moran as he could get away with. When it came to giving Greg answers, he wanted to be able to tell him everything at once, when he was secure in his own understanding of the situation. As it was, he did not know enough. He could not find Moran. At every corner, he only found more questions. 

He sat on the settee, Greg’s head in his lap, fast asleep as Mycroft brushed his fingers through his hair. Only half an hour ago, they were talking and laughing, and Mycroft dwelt on how he had never known happiness like it. But left alone in the silence with only Greg’s breathing filling the void, he stared at the wall, now devoid of paintings, brow furrowed, as he tried to work through the problems for the thousandth time. 

He stood in the doorway the next day and watched the vans driving away with the antique furniture he wanted to keep, and his family’s book collection. It would all sit in storage until it could be moved to Cedar Court in a few months' time. He thought the vans were carrying a little piece of him with them.

* * *

**September 1991.**

**Location: MI5 Headquarters, Thames House, Millbank, London.**

_He had to admit, though he loathed to do so, that his heart was racing as he shuffled through those doors. It had taken seven months to get to this point, but finally he was an MI5 employee starting his first day, gripping a briefcase and straightening his tie. He was shown to a room being used for inductions, where all the new employees of MI5 were waiting, knees shaking, pencils poised. They scribbled out notes as they were given briefing packs (never to leave the building) before being led around the site._

_ On his second day, he received a note to meet with Sylvia Ross. He knew her by reputation. He had overheard many a conversation with her name mentioned. If there was a great tale to tell from MI5 in the 1960s and 1970s, she would inevitably be a part of it. She was a great spy - the  _ greatest _ \- some whispered in awe.  _

_ She went by the title of MI5 Administrator, though if anyone suspected she was nothing more but a secretary, they were very much mistaken. She had been called everything under the sun in the short time Mycroft had known of her existence. Snooty cow, miserable bitch, overbearing, bossy, shrill. And masterful. Efficient, professional, warm, mothering, methodical.  _

_ Mycroft had no idea what to expect when he was shown to her surprisingly small office. Her hair was greying, coiffed and pinned up. She wore a blue dress suit with a shining gold peacock broach. She smiled when he came in, an easy, welcoming smile as she gestured to the chair opposite hers.  _

_ “Mycroft Holmes,” she said, straightening some papers. “How are you getting on?” _

_ He sunk into the leather seat, hands gripping the arms. “Very well, thank you, Mrs Ross.” _

_ “Itching to get to work, I suspect?” _

_ Mycroft quirked a smile. “Yes, very eager.” _

_ She smiled, her lips dark red with lipstick. “I wanted to meet you myself. I’ve taken a special interest in your progress. Your test results were outstanding. The highest among all your peers.” _

_ “I wasn’t aware of that.” _

_ She arched an eyebrow. “I doubt that’s true, Mr Holmes.” _

_ He sunk into his chair, sheepish. “Yes, you’re correct.” _

_ She hummed. “Your older brother is a terrorist. You shouldn’t be working here. You must have realised, when you applied, that your brother’s prison sentence would be problematic?” _

_ Mycroft tightened his grip on the chair arms. “I am not my brother.” _

_ “No, we’ve seen that. Anyway, I brought you here to tell you it is expunged from the main records. The only people who know are myself, a few select people and the head of MI5, and I suspect he’ll retire before long. So you have nothing to worry about for the moment. Your secret is safe.” She held his eyes, looking at him as though she could see right through him. “Prove to me that I made the right decision.” _

_ “Yes, Mrs Ross. Of course.” _

_ “I would like you to report to me once a month. You’re an interesting man, Mycroft Holmes. I intend to watch your career very closely indeed.” _

* * *

**May 2014.**

**Location: The Natural History Museum, London.**

A violinist performed in the Hintze Hall, the music reverberating around the large space and echoing off the walls. Mycroft took two glasses of sparkling wine from a tray and turned to hand one to Greg, only to find his partner straightening his tie again and brushing down the front of his already-spotless suit.

With a smile, Mycroft pushed the glass into his hand, and patted his arm. “You look perfect,” he said, though he had to adjust Greg’s tie, since he had managed to leave it askew. 

“Not perfect enough if I happen to end up in the same room as the bloody royals,” Greg grumbled, downing half his drink. 

Mycroft laughed and gazed up at Dippy, that usual, warm, nostalgic glow coming over him. It never got old, staring up at the dinosaur cast, as Dippy stood above them all. Invited guests milled around in black tie and evening gowns, nibbling the canapes and talking. 

Knowing no one was paying them any attention, Mycroft leaned in and pressed a brief kiss to Greg’s cheek. “Shall we find the stegosaurus?” he asked.

Greg flashed him a grin, the uncertainty melting away from his expression. “Yes, please.” 

Nodding his head to a few of the museum’s trustees as they went, Mycroft led the way through the building, through to the Earth Hall where [Sophie the stegosaurus](http://saziikins.tumblr.com/post/117248916108/i-found-it-theyve-called-her-sophie-and-shes) had been installed. 

“She is the only stegosaurus in the world this complete,” Mycroft explained as they walked. “This one has nearly 300 bones. It may not actually be female, they can’t actually tell, they've just called it Sophie.”

Greg chuckled. “Yes, Mycroft.”

Mycroft blinked at him. “What?”

“You’ve already told me this.”

“When?”

Greg grinned. “Oh, only about five times this week. You’ve been like an excited kid.”

Mycroft rolled his eyes. “You should have said.”

“And ruin your moment? Never.” Greg turned to him and smoothed down the lapels on his jacket as they came to a stop. “You look amazing.”

“Not like you do.”

“Hey.” Greg grinned. “No putting yourself down. I was just looking at you while you were speaking and wondering how the hell I got this lucky. And then you get that excited look in your eyes and it’s… you’re gorgeous, Mycroft.” Mycroft felt his cheeks warm, and he looked past him, not sure how to take the compliment. Greg touched his chin, guiding his face back to him. “Clearly I’ve not been telling you that enough lately if that’s enough to embarrass you.”

“You have,” Mycroft promised. “It just amazes me. When I go to this kind of event and you’re with me.”

Greg smiled and took his hand. “Let’s see Sophie.”

Mycroft squeezed his hand and led the way. A few people were already in the hall, but they were not paying attention to the skeleton in the centre of the podium. For Mycroft, she was all he could focus on. Mycroft stood by the railing, resting his hands on it and gazing at the stegosaurus, full of wonderment and a child-like excitement. Greg’s arm snaked around his waist, and they stood in silence, but for the pianist playing in the corner. 

They worked their way slowly around the podium, staring up at the dinosaur from every angle and reading the information plaques. “Take a picture with me,” Greg said, pulling his phone out.

Mycroft sighed and stepped closer. “Must I?”

“I’ll take that for you,” one of the waitresses said, holding her hand out. Greg grinned and passed his phone over. Mycroft gave her a careful once over. There was nothing to suggest she was anything but a waitress, but one couldn’t be too careful, in the circumstances. He stood at Greg’s side, trying not to grimace as she took the picture. He turned his head to look at Greg instead, resting his forehead to his temple, a soft smile finding its way onto his face. The woman returned the phone. “Wow, you’re adorable,” she said, picking her tray back up and swapping their empty glasses for full ones. 

Greg scrolled through the images she’d taken, each with Mycroft standing stiffly beside him, trying to smile but not fully succeeding. Then he scrolled to the picture of Mycroft looking at him. “Wow,” he breathed out, showing it to Mycroft.

Mycroft swallowed. He had to admit, they looked incredibly happy together. They stayed until midnight, listening to the Duke of Cambridge give a short speech about the museum and then wandering around the dinosaur exhibits. 

* * *

**November 1996.**

**Location: Just outside Ramadi, Iraq.**

_ It had been a village. It had been people’s homes and livelihoods and family. Now it was dust and rubble and human remains. Mycroft stood in the centre of what had been a village square, where people had gathered and bought food and goods and gossipped… and he had never been surrounded by so much silence. _

_ Dressed in khaki shorts and a white vest top, weapons expert Hannah Bliss would never have been able to dress that way elsewhere the country. But now there was no one to chastise her for being disrespectful. There was only British secret service and army in the area as they began to move the debris and lay the bodies in a tent, the only shade available to anyone.  _

_ “It’s like a horror film,” Hadrian Kirkcudbright said as he fell into step beside Mycroft, as a person’s leg was carefully wrapped up and taken to the tent. They had been wearing white trainers, new trainers, hardly worn… The body had been blown to bits. Just like Jimmy had been. Mycroft swallowed back his grief, still so recent and consuming. _

_ “It’s a bloody crime scene,” Hannah said, carrying a metal shard in gloved hands.  _

_ “Have you come to any conclusions?” Mycroft asked her. _

_ She shrugged. “Some. Not ready to say what they are yet.” _

_ “What do you suspect?” _

_ “I’ll tell you what I know for sure, not what I guess.” Hannah dumped the metal alongside a pile of other shards and placed her hands on her hips. “You boys going to make yourselves useful, or are you too good to get your hands dirty?” _

_ Mycroft grimaced. “I’m afraid I wouldn’t know what to look for.” _

_ Apparently that was as good as an invitation as Hannah fished around in her box and handed over a pair of gloves. Mycroft pulled them on, and followed her through the village. Through what  _ had been _ a village. “This is the blast site,” she gestured, pointing to a hole in the ground. “So I’m scoping the perimeter for pieces of the bomb and any bits of metal which might have been a part of it. You find a bit, you put one of these stickers in its place.” She passed Mycroft a sheet of blue stickers. “And then you write a number on it, and a corresponding number on the shard. You write letters instead, so I know which ones yours are. You go left, I haven’t gone that way yet.”  _

_ Wiping the sweat off his brow, Mycroft set off. There was a beautiful rug lying on the ground, something which must have cost most of someone’s annual salary. Intricate, and exquisitely decorated, Mycroft imagined someone saved up years for it, and it was their pride and joy. Now, blood stained the corner.  _

_ He worked for over an hour, finding three shards of metal, and labelling them as instructed, before adding them to Hannah’s pile. The army officers had stopped for water, and Hadrian had returned to the air-conditioned car. _

_ He found Hannah crouched by the metal, inspecting one of the pieces.  _

_ “I have to admit,” Mycroft said, “I’m not sure how you’ll be able to work out the origin of all of this. It looks like… scraps.” _

_ “Yeah, well, you did collect a melted saucepan.” _

_ Mycroft blinked. “Sorry?” _

_ Hannah held up a bit of metal. “Not a weapon,” she said, tossing it aside. “But you did alright for a beginner, I guess.” She shrugged and stood up, tugging off her gloves. “Is it you I need to report to, or Mr Dry Cleaning?” She pointed to the car Hadrian was still sitting in. _

_ Mycroft managed a wry smile. “You can tell me, if you prefer.” _

_ “Fine. We’re dealing with shitty parts of a shitty explosive.” She looked around at the carnage. “Well. I’ve seen worse, anyway.” She wrinkled her nose. “What’s really interesting is the detonator. I found parts of it. And it’s good-quality stuff. Professional.” _

_ “How professional?” _

_ She grimaced. “Big business professional. I’d need more pieces to be sure, but I’m sure as I can be that it belongs to RL6.” _

_ “RL6?” _

_ “The British weapons manufacturer.” She turned away and grabbed another piece of metal. She spun back to him. “Oh. And the British army don’t use these kinds of detonators. So, it wasn’t stolen from our Iraq bases. It got here somehow though.” She shrugged again and wandered off to get some water.  _

_ Mycroft joined Hadrian in the car. He was doing a crossword in the paper, as though it was an average afternoon, and not filled with death and destruction. “Hannah says the detonator belongs to RL6,” Mycroft told him.” Hadrian hardly moved as he added another word to his puzzle. “Hadrian.” _

_ Hadrian didn’t even flinch. “We may as well leave then," he replied. "There is nothing to gain here.” _

_ Mycroft stared at him. “People died. More than a hundred people died.” _

_ Hadrian shot him a look and closed his paper with an exasperated sigh. He flicked through it, until he reached a tiny article buried on page 22. ‘Taliban bomb blast kills hundreds in Iraq village’. Hadrian pointed to it. “There’s the story, Mycroft. The Taliban killed those people.” He glanced outside. “It’s probably true.” _

_ “Killed with British weapons.” _

_ “And the only people who know are you, me and Hannah Bliss. And her job is to analyse, report and leave.” _

_ “Someone needs to investigate this.” _

_ Hadrian sighed. “I tried, Mycroft. Eight months ago, same situation. I got stonewalled. The Government gives millions of pounds to RL6 every year. They will never investigate them. Never.”  _

_ “Surely they’d want to know? Surely MI6 would want to know if…” _

_ “MI6?” Hadrian laughed. “If you trust MI6 with anything, you’re an idiot. I wouldn’t trust anyone at all if I were you, Mycroft.” Hadrian returned to his crossword. “Don’t trust a single word they ever tell you.”  _

* * *

**December 1996.**

**Location: SIS Building, Vauxhall Cross, London.**

_ Working in a half-empty room, the lights around his desk dimmed, Mycroft completed the report Hadrian Kirkcudbright had told him not to write. ‘You’ll create trouble for yourself’, he had warned. ‘Keep your head down. You could be looking at leading MI6 one day. People already have you pegged for the top jobs’.  _

_ But he couldn’t listen. He had to work. He had to work, because he remembered last Christmas, only 12 months ago, dinner with Jimmy, playing Battleships on his bed in the afterglow of sex… One month later, just one month later, and he was dead.  _

_ Seeing the bodies in Iraq had brought those memories back. If Mycroft slept at all, he dreamt of that fateful night. He dreamt he had blood on his hands.  _

_ Mycroft swallowed and turned back to his report. Put it aside, he told himself. Forget him. And think about those villagers instead. Do what you can for them. He looked back at the pictures Hannah had taken from the Iraqi village. ‘It’s not worth the hassle’, Hadrian had said. But Jimmy would have told Mycroft to do what he thought was right, to fuck the establishment, fuck their rules. ‘Back yourself, trust your gut’.  _

_ If only Mycroft had trusted his gut that terrible night 11 months ago and forced Jimmy not to get into that helicopter. He should have dragged him back into the base. Should have broken the helicopter before it could take off…  _

_ He rubbed his forehead. Only two months ago, he had discovered memos from the heads of the CIA which had been sent to Jimmy. Unbeknown to Mycroft at the time, Jimmy’s job was at risk. He had become a liability. His sexuality, so open, had become a problem. He drank too much, smoked too much, swore too much, did not appear to care enough. But Jimmy wanted to be perfect. He wanted a top job, and he wanted to be the CIA’s superhero. But he was not the CIA’s ideal candidate, and they piled the pressure on until he died, until he was killed. And a terrorist killed him, but Mycroft knew it was his superiors who pressed the button, who forced him into the helicopter that night.  _

_ Mycroft slept in one of the break rooms, curled up on one of the small settees, jacket draped over his shoulders. He kept a change of shirt in his drawer, and was showered and changed before most of his colleagues arrived at work. By then, his report was filed, and on Sylvia Ross’ desk.  _

_ Mycroft expected it would not have been read yet, so he was surprised when he was summoned to Mrs Ross’ office before lunchtime. Sylvia Ross had been joined by a tall, balding man, with searching eyes, who stood by the window, watchful. Sylvia poured Mycroft a cup of tea as he sat down. “Meet Hugh Seagroves,” she said by way of introduction, not focusing on either of them. Seagroves stayed standing. “It’s not official yet, but he will be moving over to MI6 very shortly.” _

_ Mycroft shook his hand. “Nice to meet you,” he said. _

_ “And yourself,” Seagroves said. He picked up Mycroft’s report. “This made for some interesting reading.” Mycroft stayed silent, lips pressed together. “Who asked you to write this?” _

_ “No one.” _

_ Seagroves flipped through the pages, eyeing Mycroft over the top of them. “Then why did you?” _

_ Mycroft glanced between them. “It’s my report into what happened in that village.” _

_ “No one sold weapons to the Taliban, Mr Holmes,” Seagroves said.  _

_ “I know that. What I said was…” _

_ “British weapons were smuggled into Iraq somehow, I know.” Hugh ripped the papers in half and dropped them into the bin. “Forget about this, Mycroft. It isn’t your job to solve the world’s ills. It’s your job to analyse and prevent terrorism on British soil.” _

_ Mycroft narrowed his eyes. “And what about the lives of those Iraqis? What if RL6 is…” _

_ “It isn’t our concern,” Sylvia said, firm. “We have deleted your report from the system. This is the only copy, and it will be destroyed. Forget about it, Mycroft.” _

_ Mycroft clenched his hands into fists. “You didn’t see what I saw.”  _

_ “It isn’t our fight,” she murmured. "We can’t take on the Government, for heaven’s sake. Now, why don’t you let it go?” _

_ “You’re talking about a cover-up,” Mycroft snapped.  _

_ Sylvia raised her eyebrows. “We most certainly are not.” _

_ Mycroft pointed to the bin. “We have evidence a British weapons manufacturer’s devices ended up in enemy hands. Don’t you think someone should be looking into this?” _

_ “The Government signed a multi-billion-pound contract with RL6 just two weeks ago,” Seagroves said. “It’s an error. There is no evidence this is common-place.” _

_ Mycroft glared at him. “Then someone should find out if it is.” _

_ “It is not our jurisdiction, and that is my final decision on the matter.” _

_ Mycroft swallowed. “Because Iraqis died, and they don’t matter, do they? Because the only lives important to MI6 are British citizens, even if those elsewhere die because of us, that’s fine, because they don’t matter.” _

_ “Their lives…” Seagroves gripped the windowsill. “They’re not in our jurisdiction. We sent you to Iraq to listen to signals intelligence. You did that perfectly. The bombing was…” Seagroves paused. “The bombing was unfortunate, but it happens all the time. People die all the time. These things happen.” _

_ “These things,” Mycroft muttered. “Like Jimmy. The cover-ups…” _

_ “Who?” Sylvia asked.  _

_ Mycroft froze. He couldn’t do this.  _

_ He looked across at Sylvia, Sylvia who had given him preferential treatment, who had arranged for him to spend some time with the CIA in the first place. Sylvia, who Mycroft knew he was smarter than. Sylvia, who wouldn’t cause a fuss, not if it would bring the Government into disrepute. Efficient Sylvia Ross who cleared up everyone’s messes behind them… even if that meant wiping off the blood and discarding the bodies. She’d see him dead, Mycroft thought. If she had to. So would Seagroves, whoever he was. So would everyone involved in the damned organisation. Don’t trust any of them.  _

_ Mycroft left, silent.  _

_ He spent Christmas alone at Oak Manor and grieved for Jimmy.  _

_ And then handed in his notice, and served the six weeks in silence. When he left the SIS Building for the last time, he did not look back. _

* * *

**June 2014.**

**Location: Coeur de Lion Offices, Mayfair, London.**

It started off as a good day. He and Greg had woken up naturally before their alarms, and the early morning blowjob had left Mycroft more relaxed than usual. He was signing papers for his and Greg’s new house when he was called by an MI5 agent in a rush to get her words out.

“Hang on, slow down,” Mycroft told her. “Say that again.”

“We have a… an office set up in London. In Brockley. We’re using it for a… a mission. And there’s an elephant.”

“An elephant?" She tried to speak. "You need to stop waffling," Mycroft cut in. "There’s an elephant where?”

“In the house we’ve been using for the past six months.”

“There’s an elephant in a house MI5 is using?”

“Yes.”

Mycroft rubbed his forehead. “And you’re calling me about it… why?”

“I was told you would know what to do.”

“Because there’s an elephant in a room and no one knows what to do about it?”

“Yeah. Exactly that.”

Mycroft had to bite back a startled laugh. “I don’t have contacts in zoos or anything. It’s not exactly my jurisdiction…”

“I was told to call you.”

Mycroft sighed. “This sounds like a matter for the police, if someone’s stolen an elephant and broken into a house and deposited it there...”

“No one can know about this.”

Mycroft rolled his eyes. His good humour was rapidly disappearing. “No, I understand. I know a police officer who is very discreet. I’ll ask him to go. Where is it?”

“29 Ryder Lane in Brockley.”

Exasperated, and yet unable to keep his smile at bay, Mycroft called Greg and asked him to get Sherlock and John on the case. He recounted the story to each of his staff as he came across them during the next hour. They all rolled their eyes at MI5’s incompetence, and got on with their day.

But when Greg arrived at the office, Mycroft could tell right away that something was very wrong. He took the envelope from him, noting Greg’s name written over the front. He slid the piece of paper out. ‘Some other time, Detective Inspector’, it said. There was no doubting the origin. “Moran,” Mycroft muttered.

Greg slumped into the chair opposite him. Mycroft called for Anthea. “I need you to get Nadia Swift on the phone straight away,” he told her. “It’s urgent. Greg, I…” He winced, knowing his partner would surely hate this. “I want you to stay here for the moment. I know it’s an imposition but…”

“Whatever you need me to do.”

Grateful, Mycroft reached across to him and squeezed his hand. “Anthea, could you find Greg a laptop and log into the Met’s database?” He turned to Greg. “You can at least type up some reports while you’re here. Set yourself up on my settee.”

Greg forced a smile and moved to the settee, running a hand through his hair. Mycroft’s phone rang a minute later. “Hello, Nadia,” he said. “I’ve no time for smalltalk. What exactly is happening in 29 Ryder Lane?”

“I’ve no idea," she said, sounding surprised. "What’s in Ryder Lane?”

“It’s a house. A terraced house. MI5 is using it, apparently.”

“Using it for what?” Nadia asked. 

“You tell me.”

There was a pause. “Just a moment,” she said. Mycroft could hear her typing. “Okay. Yep, apparently we’ve got some sort of surveillance operation in place. 29 Ryder Lane… it’s been going for six months, they’re looking for someone called Sebastian Moran.”

Mycroft froze. “Who ordered this operation?”

“Just some juniors by the looks of it. One of our top guys gave them clearance. They came across the name in relation to some bomb-makers we were following in Birmingham. They decided to launch an operation.”

“And you didn’t know?”

“I’m not like you or Hugh or Sylvia. I trust my staff to do their jobs without me looking over their shoulders.”

“Clearly that’s an oversight on your part.”

“It’s a surveillance op, no more, no less.”

Mycroft tapped his finger against the desk. “He is number one on my most wanted list, Nadia. He is in my jurisdiction.”

“No one is exclusively in your jurisdiction. We are supposed to work together.”

Keep calm, he told himself. “I need everything from that operation. I want every piece of information they have and then I want you to shut it down immediately.”

“Mycroft, if they have a reason to open it, then they do not shut it down just because you say so. This is not how we operate.”

“Your operation has been infiltrated by the very man they are tracking down,” Mycroft snapped. “Sebastian Moran got a bloody elephant in there, under your juniors’ noses. Now shut it down and give me everything. Moran is not your concern.”

“Mycroft-”

“-We are not arguing on this, Nadia. See it done by the end of this afternoon.”

“And what will you do if I don’t? You are not my boss. I am the head of MI5, and this is my problem.”

“This is not your problem, Nadia. This is my problem. If you stay involved, you will only make it worse. Trust me on this.” And softer, he added: “please. Just shut it down.”

He heard her sigh. “We’re supposed to be working together.”

“We are.”

“No, we’re not. You think you’re so much better than us.”

“I am.”

“You’re an arrogant son of a bitch.”

“Nadia, do we have a problem here?”

She was silent for a second. “No,” she bit out. “No, we don’t.”

“Good. Sort it out, Nadia. Close it down.” And he hung up before she could argue. 

Greg stared across at him, arms folded over his chest. They met one another’s eyes, but there was nothing either of them could say. Anthea joined them, bringing Greg a laptop and them both some tea. She sat on the edge of Mycroft’s desk, printing Nadia’s documents. They worked in silence for the whole afternoon. 

* * *

**April 1997.**

**Location: Oliver Cale’s flat, Fleet Street, London.**

_He wasn’t sure why he had come. As he sat in the corner nursing a glass of cheap wine, he wished he hadn’t bothered. Oliver Cale was showing fellow reporters around his new flat, an old office block once used by journalists, now converted into an apartment building with glossy furnishings and self-aware pretentiousness._

_ Staring down at his knees, Mycroft tuned out the conversations and music and plotted his escape. But just as he was preparing to leave, Oliver pulled up a dining room chair, sitting close enough that their knees touched. “Bored?” he asked. _

_ “It’s not my type of occasion,” Mycroft said, too worn out to lie, but still aware Oliver was close to the only friendly acquaintance he had these days.  _

_ But Oliver laughed and topped Mycroft’s glass up. “How’s the new job?” _

_ “Tolerable,” he replied, eyeing the wine bottle and doing his best not to turn his lip up at it. _

_ “What is it you’re doing again?” _

_ “Civil service. Department For Transport.” _

_ “Well, that sounds like a thrill.” _

_ “It has its moments.” _

_ “Get drunk with me.” _

_ Mycroft shot him a look. “I was about to leave.” _

_ “Yeah, I know that. But stay.” Oliver put his hand down on Mycroft’s knee, their eyes meeting. He smoothed his thumb over Mycroft’s knee. “Stay. Enjoy the party.” _

_ Mycroft swallowed and downed half his wine. “Fine,” he agreed. “But I’m not staying the night.” _

_ Two hours later, and the party had wound down. Mycroft stood in Oliver’s bedroom, his trousers and boxers round his ankles with Oliver on his knees in front of him, servicing his cock with his tongue and lips. Mycroft tangled his fingers in his hair and leaned against the wall. He tipped his head back and closed his eyes and imagined it was Jimmy’s mouth, Jimmy’s hair, Jimmy sucking and groaning around him. Tears pricked on the corner of his eyes when his despair mingled with pleasure, but he squeezed them away and rocked his hips and came on Oliver’s tongue. _

_ He stroked Oliver off afterwards, Oliver’s face buried in his neck while Mycroft stared blankly at the wall over his shoulder. Oliver fell asleep beside him, the sheets draped over his hips, and Mycroft left the flat and took a taxi home.  _

* * *

_If he regretted sex with Oliver, and he did, he really did, because it felt like he had betrayed Jimmy somehow, he liked those few seconds of oblivion too much to stop completely. They met up a couple more times, and it was at another of Oliver’s parties that Mycroft met Kye Greene, an Irishman with coal-black hair and a quirk to his smile._

_ It was while Mycroft was getting another drink that Kye joined him in the kitchen. Mycroft was half-drunk by then, leaning against the wall, letting the world swirl by him. And during their first, brief, conversation Mycroft realised he recognised him from MI6, that he had been one of their younger agents. He had spent a few years in Northern Ireland, and he had been transferred to Headquarters just as Mycroft was leaving.  _

_ They didn’t speak about work though. Kye was intelligent, quick-witted and he hung on Mycroft’s every word as they moved back to the living room. They spoke about books and art, getting and closer and closer on the settee, and Mycroft found himself in good spirits as he returned for the kitchen for more wine. _

_ “You should go for it,” Oliver said. “I won’t mind.” _

_ Mycroft eyed him. “Go for what?” _

_ “The cute guy with the tight jeans. He’s been staring at you all night.” _

_ Mycroft pulled a face. “He’s a bit young.” _

_ “You’re 26, he’s probably… what, 22 or 23?” _

_ “About that.” _

_ Oliver grinned. “Go for it, Mycroft, seriously. And then tell me if that arse is as sweet as it looks.” _

_ Mycroft hadn’t intended to follow Oliver’s encouragement. But as he stood with Kye, he found the man tilting his body towards him, their hands brushing together. It was undeniable that Mycroft was being flirted with. And it was as intoxicating as the alcohol.  _

_ Kye’s kisses were sweet and soft in the taxi to Mycroft’s, and it made a nice contrast to Oliver’s direct, determined style. His body was toned, gloriously muscled. Not for the first time that evening, Mycroft wondered what on earth Kye was doing with him, when there was much better on offer at the party. Even Oliver, taller, far more athletic, though a bit of a pain in the neck at times, would have been a better choice for Kye. But no, Kye was with Mycroft and kissing over his body with reverence.  _

_ Mycroft was dizzy with lust as he fucked him (yes, Oliver, he thought, his backside really is so sweet) and his concerns were tossed aside with ease as he lost himself to pleasure. They lay together afterwards, sharing a pillow as they caressed and kissed. _

_ “So, why did you leave?” Kye asked, peppering kisses over Mycroft’s chest. _

_ Mycroft frowned, not opening his eyes. “Leave what?” _

_ “You know what.” _

_ Mycroft hummed, wondering if he would be able to get up for a second round. “No. I’m not sure I do.” _

_ “Box. Why did you leave Box?” _

_ Mycroft tensed. “What’s Box?” he asked, pretending he didn’t know full-well that it meant the security services. _

_ Kye kissed around his nipple. “I’m just using the bathroom,” he said. _

_ Mycroft watched him go before stumbling out of bed and finding his wallet. He flipped through the contents; the drivers’ licence, bank cards, cash… Nothing unusual. And yet... It wasn’t unusual for Kye to show that he recognised Mycroft. But why wait to ask about it until they’d had sex, when Mycroft’s defences were down in the afterglow?  _

_ He pretended to be asleep when Kye returned and slid in beside him. But Mycroft stayed awake. He breathed deeply, waiting, expectant. And when Kye got up again, Mycroft listened to his footsteps. He did not go to the bathroom. No, he had headed for Mycroft’s study. _

_ Rolling his eyes to himself, Mycroft pulled on a dressing gown, following him to the room, deathly silent. Kye was stark naked, holding up a torch as he tried to get into a locked drawer. “You could have asked for a key,” Mycroft muttered. Kye froze, almost dropping the torch. Mycroft sighed, resigned, not really needing to ask the question. “Who sent you?” _

_ “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” _

_ Mycroft did not have the patience to argue. “Get out,” he said. Kye scurried to his bedroom, dressed, and left without a word.  _

* * *

**July 2014.**

**Location: Crusader House, Pall Mall, London.**

Work began in earnest to clear out Crusader House and get everything ready to move in to Cedar Court. It was a relief to have something positive to focus on; to spend his evenings browsing furniture and hunting for art on auction sites. He would lie in bed with Greg, a laptop between them as they ordered furniture and sorted out their home.

But there was Moran still to deal with. And a niggling feeling, just something, in the back of his mind. Something he could not place. 

It was time to tell Greg as much as he could, at the very least. He led him through to his office. “I used to know everything,” Mycroft told him, frowning at his laptop. “I could predict everything with a reasonable degree of certainty. Moriarty was… erratic. He planned things through, but his patience hung on a knife edge. One false move by anyone, even one of his associates, and I think he’d turn on them without a thought. Moran concerns me, because I don’t think he has anything left to lose. He doesn’t have a place in the world. And worse than that, he’s targeting you.”

Greg stood behind him, hands on his shoulders, and kissed his hair. Mycroft opened the picture of Sebastian Moran in army uniform. “Do you recognise him?” Mycroft asked.

“Nope.”

“It’s Moran.” He opened the CCTV images he had of Moran, found through his facial recognition system.

“I know that place,” Greg said. “It’s um… The Blues Kitchen I think. Sam played there a few times.”

“You’re correct.” Mycroft pointed to the screen. “And here you are, by the bar in January 2012.”

“Jesus Christ, Mycroft, how much CCTV of me do you have?”

“More than you want to know about.”

Greg huffed a laugh. “Yeah. Okay. I see me.”

“And do you see that man?”

“Which one?”

“The one by the bar.”

Greg peered closer. “Bloody hell, he looks like he’s checking me out.” Greg paused. “He’s got light hair, but… that’s him, isn’t it? Moran.”

“Yes.”

“I don’t get it. What the hell does he want me for?”

“I don’t know,” Mycroft said. “I’ve increased your security, and Sherlock’s and John’s. And my own. I hate to say that we sit and wait but…”

“That’s exactly what you want us to do.”

“He’s not Moriarty, Greg. He is a reckless man looking for revenge, but he isn’t in the same league, intelligence wise.”

Greg sighed. “You know I trust you, yeah?”

Mycroft pursed his lips, looking up at Greg. “No. No, I didn’t know. Not after… not after everything with Sherlock.”

“Oh.” Greg kissed his brow. “Well, I do. Okay? I trust you.” He knelt down and reached for Mycroft’s hand. Mycroft could only stare as he let go of the fears he hadn’t realised he had been harbouring. “I trust you. And I trust you to make the right decision on this, whatever it might be.”

“You always have been a constant source of surprise for me, Greg,” Mycroft murmured.

Greg smiled against his knuckles, kissing them. “I love you, Mycroft.” He stood up and kissed his mouth. “You and me can get through anything.”

“I agree,” he said. “And I love you too.”

Greg kissed him again. “I know. We’re gonna get through this. All of us. Now, you find Moran, and I’ll make us dinner.”

* * *

**February 1998.**

**Location: SIS Building, Vauxhall Cross, London.**

_Mycroft knew all along that he was being watched. He could sense it. It wasn’t paranoia. He knew MI5 and MI6 too well to be paranoid about it. He was being followed, he was being watched, and they probably monitored his every phone call. He harboured their secrets, and they were worried about what he would do with them. They were never going to let him go._

_ He kept a low profile after Kye. He went to work and home, only leaving to go to the shops. Being a recluse came easy to him. He preferred it to the alcohol and sex. That pleasure was only a temporary respite, and he ended up feeling less satisfied than he had started off. He could lie in his home and read and work, and he found it was easier to be alone than bother with carnal needs and human contact.  _

_ For 10 months, he kept his distance. But he began to struggle. He imagined his every move was being watched. He thought they’d set up cameras in his home and he searched every inch of the building and could find none, but he still imagined they were there.  _

_ He couldn’t live like this, he knew. Expecting to be shot dead any moment, expecting someone to finally get him. At breaking point, he marched into the SIS Building. He cleared security without trouble, and he knew right away that someone had expected him to return all along.  _

_ “Hello there, stranger.” _

_ Mycroft bit his lip and turned round to face Hugh Seagroves. “Do you let anyone just wander in here these days?” he asked.  _

_ Seagroves smiled, warm and welcoming. “Only those we want to let in. Come on, let’s see Sylvia together.” _

_ Mycroft followed him without protest, glancing around the quiet atrium as they went to Mrs Ross’ office. She smiled on his arrival, exchanging a look with Seagroves before offering them both biscuits. “I was expecting to see you months ago,” she said. _

_ “Do you expect visits from everyone you’re spying on?” _

_ She raised her eyebrows. “You can hardly blame us for that.” _

_ “I’d go to jail if I told anyone anything about the work you do here.” _

_ “Some people will take the risk,” Hugh said. “And you’ve been spending a lot of time around journalists.” _

_ “We were at university together.” _

_ Hugh chuckled. “Yes, we know.” _

_ Mycroft narrowed his eyes at them. “What do you want?” _

_ “I understand why you left, Mycroft,” Sylvia said, leaning on her desk. “But I want you to come home.” _

_ “Why?” _

_ “Why?” She looked stunned. “Because you’re wanted here. It’s where you belong. You’re the best we have.” _

_ “I don’t approve of everything you do.” _

_ “No one does,” Hugh said. “Thank goodness. We need people to keep us on our toes. We need people to challenge us.” _

_ Mycroft looked between them. The reasons he left had not changed. He would spend his life doing things he didn't agree with. “I can’t.” _

_ “Mycroft…” _

_ “I can’t come back full-time.” He clasped his hands together. “I’ve been working for the civil service. I prefer it.” _

_ “Mycroft, no one else can do what you can do,” Sylvia pressed. “We need you here.” _

_ He hesitated. “How much do you need me?” he asked.  _

_ “We have a… there’s something we think only someone with your gifts can solve.” _

_ “Then you may consult me for help. Call me in when you need me. But I won’t come back.” _

_ “This is unprecedented,” Sylvia said.  _

_ Mycroft smiled coolly. “You may take it or leave it.” _

_ “We’ll take it,” Hugh said quickly, before Sylvia could reply. “But I hope, in time, you will reconsider and work with us full-time.” _

_ Mycroft rose from his seat. “Have someone draw up some terms. You can always rely on my discretion.”  _

* * *

**August 2014.**

**Location: Cedar Court, Kensington, London.**

It had taken a few weeks longer than Mycroft had planned, but the restoration project at the house was complete. Their home - it was their home - had been decorated and was only waiting for the furniture. He stood behind Greg in their bedroom-to-be, arms around his waist, both gazing out of the window. Mycroft rested his chin on Greg’s shoulder. “Is this what you expected?” he asked. 

“No,” Greg whispered. “No, it’s more. He turned in Mycroft’s arms, drawing him into a gentle kiss. “Mycroft. I. There’s something I wanted to…”

Mycroft groaned as his phone cut Greg off. “I’m sorry,” he said as he answered it. “Hello?” 

“There are reports of Moran in South London,” Anthea replied. 

“They’ve found him?”

“Someone has. Someone in MI5, but the details are sketchy, and I’m trying to get as much as I can before you get here.”

“Get everyone we can spare on this immediately.”

“Yes, sir.”

Mycroft hung up. “It’s Moran. He’s been traced to South London. We need to go.”

Mycroft had Kamik Toor drop Greg at Crusader House, before he headed to the office. Anthea was on the phone, giving whoever was on the other line a bit of a lecture. Mads had a map spread out over three desks he had pushed together, and Erin and Lucas were on their laptops, watching CCTV and crossing off street names as they went. 

“Any luck?” Mycroft asked, stopping at Mads’ shoulder. 

“Nothing firm enough,” Mads said. “This map shows all the cameras in your system. We’re checking all the…”

Mycroft stopped listening when his phone beeped. He looked down at the screen. His facial recognition system had found Moran - in his building. At home. Where Greg was. 

Without a thought for his own safety or protocol, he swept back out of the room and raced down the stairs, into the car with Kamik, where the engine had been left running. “Get me home right now,” he snapped, pulling the seatbelt on. “And put your foot down.”

“Yes, sir,” Kamik said. 

Mycroft swallowed and checked his phone again. Don’t be dead, he thought. For Christ’s sake, after all of this, please do not be dead. He had to keep his terror at bay, but his body felt like ice. His heart raced, and images of Greg ran through his head. He thought he had done everything, everything he could to keep him safe, and now Moran was there, and somehow… Somehow Moran had got to Greg. 

Mycroft was out of the car before it had even come to a complete stop, and he raced up the stairs. None of the door staff was on alert. If they’d heard a gunshot, surely they would have been on alert? 

He took one deep breath, and opened the door to his and Greg’s flat, and swept his eyes around the room. Greg was sat on the settee, tense but alive, but Moran was there and holding a gun. “Good afternoon,” Mycroft said, closing the door behind him, and controlling his breathing, trying to hide that he had been running. Perhaps those hours on the treadmill were beginning to pay off… “I wasn’t aware we were expecting visitors.”

Moran gestured with the gun, a smirk on his face. “I like surprises. How you doin’, Mycroft?”

“Well, thank you.” Mycroft gave Greg another once over, checking for injuries. Unharmed. Thus far. “And yourself?”

“Excellent, Mycroft,” Moran said. “Except for the fact that my boss is dead, the network’s broken and I have no fucking life left. But yes. Perfect, otherwise.”

Mycroft took slow steps in, stopping at the back of the settee, laying a hand on Greg’s shoulder, not taking his eyes off Moran. “How can I help you?”

“Can I have a cuppa?” Moran asked. “Coffee. Better make it Irish.” Greg looked up at him and went to get up. “No,” Moran said. “Mycroft. You make it.”

Mycroft gave Greg’s shoulder a surreptitious squeeze. “Very well.” 

It wasn’t ideal, he thought as he turned the kettle on, leaving Greg alone with him again. But this way he gave himself some time to think. Give him whatever he wants, he thought. Or as close as possible… He knew if Moran was here, then he would be after something. Moran could easily just kill them both. But what would that achieve? 

Mycroft poured an Irish coffee and carried it through on a tray, with two alcohol-free coffees. Moran took the drink, and Mycroft took a seat beside Greg, resting one ankle on the opposite knee, portraying a calmness he did not feel. “How on earth did you get in?” he asked.

Moran looked far too pleased with himself. “I got an elephant into a top secret MI5 building specifically set up to keep an eye on me. I can do pretty much anything.”

“I have to admit, I was impressed. And very little impresses me nowadays.”

“Nothing?” Moran nodded towards Greg. “You’ve got a catch right there.”

Mycroft managed a small smile. “Touche,” he said. “How can I help you?”

“I want to offer a trade,” Moran said. “My protection in exchange for information.”

“What information could you possibly have that I would want?” Mycroft asked.

“Mary Morstan.”

Mycroft took a sip from his own drink. “Protection from whom?” he asked.

“From you," Moran said. "You and me have been tracking each other for years. I especially enjoyed keeping an eye on your… bit.” He looked Greg up and down. Mycroft had never wanted so badly to put his hands around someone’s throat as he did Moran’s. “I have other offers on the table. Charles Magnussen is interested.”

“How much is he offering you?” Mycroft asked.

“Shitloads. But your protection matters more than all the money he can offer.”

“What is Magnussen’s interest?”

Moran shrugged. “He just likes to know stuff, don’t he?” 

“How did you come by the information?” Mycroft asked. “When I went to find it, you’d already stolen it.”

“The Waters Gang are very competent.”

“Ah,” Mycroft murmured. “Very good.” 

“What do you say then? I give you everything you want on John’s little bit, and you let me dance off into the sunset. Preferably in a Jaguar convertible, but I’m not pushing my luck.”

“How very noble of you.”

Moran grinned. “I’m a good lad. That’s what my mam always said. How about it, Mycroft? Love to get your fingers on information, don’t you?”

“This is how you intend to survive from now on then?” Mycroft asked. “Negotiations with the people who destroyed your life?”

Moran gripped his gun. Mycroft stilled. Don’t push your luck, Mycroft chastised himself. “We all need to get by,” Moran said. His dark eyes flicked between them. “Your position is weakening, Mycroft. There’s talk. Ripples. And you know what happens to ripples, don’t you? They turn into waves. But I’m thinkin’ bigger. I’m thinking fucking tsunamis.”

“What makes you think I have any concern for the talk of the criminal classes? Moriarty was a genius. You can’t convince me that there’s someone bigger than that out there. You’re alone, Sebastian. You’ve overplayed your hand.”

“You’ve overplayed yours,” Moran snarled. “You think Sherlock’s globe-trotting means everything’s over? That it’s gone?”

“I have no reason to think otherwise. You’re here negotiating with me for your life.”

Moran grinned. “Touche. One-all, is that?”

“I believe so,” Mycroft said.

“Keep score, Greg,” Moran said. “It’s one-one and we’re not finished, Mycroft.”

Mycroft held his hands out. “I never thought we were.”

“The game. It’s not over.”

Mycroft held his eyes. “It’s never over,” he muttered. 

“You’re losing, Mycroft. And you’re so blind, you don’t even see it. Look at you, in your perfect little office in Whitehall and your secret office in Mayfair. Coeur de Lion is it? Moriarty said you named it yourself.”

“I did,” Mycroft said. “King Richard I was my favourite English king. He was a great military leader, and went into battle during the Crusades. He was known as Richard The Lionheart. Richard Coeur de Lion.”

“Funny thing, hearts,” Moran said. “Moriarty always said Sherlock was pathetic. All heart. He called you the Ice Man. He admired that. If he could see you now though… You’re all heart. Look at you, in your cosy flat with your gorgeous bit on the side and your cats. Cats, Mycroft!”

“How much information have you got on Mary Morstan?” Mycroft asked.

“Everything.”

“Then let’s stop playing games, shall we?” 

“Alright.”

Mycroft clasped his hands together. “As much as I would like your information, I’m afraid I will have to, on this occasion, turn you down. I cannot negotiate with terrorists.”

Moran snorted. “Is that what you think I am?”

“Close enough,” Mycroft said.

“Fine.” Moran put his mug down. “Give me some time to get lost before you send your henchmen after me, won’t you?”

“I’ll give you exactly 60 minutes.”

Moran let out a manic laugh, waving his gun around. “Only need 20,” he said. He winked at Greg. “Some other time then,” he said before strolling out of the flat.

They sat in silence until the door closed. Mycroft ran his hands over his face, letting out a shaky breath. 

“What the hell are you doing?” Greg hissed.

“Killing two birds with one stone,” Mycroft said. “Sebastian is still being followed, and Magnussen will reveal the truth about Mary.”

“You need to tell Sherlock what’s going on.”

“No. He’s too sentimental. He cares far too much about her already. And you can’t tell him.”

“He trusts me.”

“All the more reason you can’t say a word,” Mycroft whispered.

Bang. Gunshot. Mycroft snapped his head up. Greg scrambled from his seat and ran to the balcony. But Mycroft’s blood had already turned cold. His footsteps were heavy as he made his way outside and watched the Range Rover race away. Kamik’s body lay in the middle of the road. Mycroft’s neighbours ran from their homes, screaming and shouting. Mycroft was frozen to the spot. Tsunamis... 

“So it begins,” Mycroft murmured. 

Greg’s arm snaked around his waist. “What the hell is he doing?” he asked.

“Warning shots.”

“Warning?” Greg repeated.

Mycroft pulled away. “He’s leading two-one. He’s only getting started.” He headed back into the flat. 

“You let him get away!” Greg called after him.

Mycroft spun around to face him. “He had a weapon!” he snapped. “What did you want me to do? I had to offer him something, and my protection was not going to be it.”

“He’s not going to stop.”

“I _will_ stop him.”

“Your driver’s dead.”

Mycroft looked past Greg and into the street. He looked back at Greg - at the man he loved - the man he had put at risk. Again. “Sometimes I wish I never found reason to care at all,” he whispered, his chest clenching. He swallowed and marched through the flat. 

“Mycroft!” Greg shouted at his back. “Don’t say things like that and then just bugger off!”

Mycroft kept going. He ran down the stairs and out of the building. He got into the car just as the police arrived, and he drove off, heading straight to his offices. 

“I’ve just sent bloody Cliff to go and get you,” Anthea hissed at him as he marched past her. “He’s got six men as armed back-up because you didn’t wait five seconds to tell us what was going on.”

Mycroft spun around. “Moran is after me,” he snapped back. “I had to be there. Me. That’s all.” He took a breath. “Kamik’s dead. Get MI5 to take over the police investigation.” He paused. “No, scrap that. It’s our investigation and keep MI5 as far out of it as you can.”

Anthea stared. “Kamik?”

“Moran shot him. How didn’t we know he was in Pall Mall?”

“I don’t know, sir,” Erin piped up, hesitant. “I’ve been checking all the CCTV but he’s not there.”

“It’s yesterday’s CCTV,” Mads said from behind her, looking up as realisation dawned on his face. He swallowed. “It’s yesterday’s footage. It’s on repeat. I’ve just seen you leave your house wearing the same tie as yesterday.”

Mycroft bit his lip. “I need to think,” he said, and shut himself in his office, locking the door. He sunk into his chair. 

Moran couldn’t do this alone. The Waters Gang were good, they could steal jewellery and money and hack into computers, but _this_ good? Could they really take over a CCTV system, one Mycroft himself had upgraded and had installed? 

He’s right under our noses, Mycroft thought. All the time, sitting there, watching us, laughing… He was getting elephants into MI5 buildings and getting himself into Mycroft’s home and sitting there calm and easy as he liked. 

Mycroft poured himself a drink, standing in the corner with it. He spun the globe, watching it turn. He can’t be working alone, Mycroft thought. Moran’s good but not _that_ good. He was missing something. He opened his door again, and looked around at his team, all of them keeping their heads down and not meeting his eyes. They had all been hand-selected, they were his, they were loyal, this building was his, this operation was his… 

From over Lucas’ shoulder, he could see Watchtower was open on his computer; the most sophisticated surveillance system and Government database in the world. It was his. Only he had access to it all. Only he had access to every arm of the security services, was at the heart of the Government, the civil service… 

And it was so obvious, he was furious he had not seen it coming. 

Moran wanted him dead.

And he surely wasn’t the only one. 


	74. Running

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two chapters to go still... I've had to add another one because. Reasons. I'm going to finish this before the new season of Sherlock starts, dammit. I have to.

**August 2014.**

**Location: Oak Manor, Oxfordshire.**

For the first few hours he sat in his chair by the window, confronted with visions of Greg lying dead on their living flood, blood oozing from a bullet wound in his head. Greg wasn’t dead. Moran had left him alive, why, Mycroft could not say. But Moran could have easily killed him. He had means, motive and opportunity… too much opportunity.

Mycroft knew he shouldn’t have left. He knew Greg would be worried, and angry, and there would only be so many times he would tolerate Mycroft shutting him out. But he needed time away. He needed to clear his head, and consider recent events.  And he could not give it the required time when Greg was near, when he wanted to curl up in his arms instead, and kiss him instead, and listen to Greg’s thoughts instead. 

No, here was necessary. Being alone was the only thing which could help now. 

Oak Manor echoed. His footsteps sounded like drums on the floorboards, sending the itch of foreboding up his spine, rather like barbed wire laced around his core. It wasn’t a home anymore, not with most of the furniture gone. It was just a shell, an empty manor, where he once had lived. But, rather like a hermit crab, it was a suitable base for a short time, while he straightened out his thoughts. 

He rang Anthea first, once he had unpacked the clothes he had grabbed from the Couer de Lion, and then his spare shirts from the Whitehall office. He had collected overpriced toiletries from a corner shop on the way, just as he had stocked up on some items of food; a few luxuries in a bid to set himself at ease.

“You’ll have to hold the fort,” he told Anthea as he surveyed the gardens. “I’ll take phone calls from here. For all intents and purposes, I am out of contact to anyone.”

“Will you take calls from the Prime Minister?”

Mycroft sighed. “Only in code red situations.”

“Consider it done.”

“I haven’t… I haven’t told Greg where…”

“What do I say when he calls?”

Mycroft paused, Greg’s name sitting like a regretful knot in his ribcage. “Tell him I’m fine. But that’s all.” Mycroft was sure he could hear her roll her eyes.

“And Sherlock?” she asked.

“He has plenty to distract him.”

“The wedding is approaching,” Anthea reminded him. 

“Keep the usual eyes on him.”

“He knows how to dodge us.”

Mycroft sighed. “I cannot protect him forever.” He frowned. “Anthea. I need you to do something for me.”

“Yes, sir?”

“Fetch me Irene Adler and bring her here.”

“Irene Adler?”

“I’ll email you the instructions for her… extraction and how to keep her safe.”

“Of course, sir.”

“Thank you. That’ll be all.” 

The helicopter landed in the gardens 24 hours later. Mycroft opened the door to Cliff Crenshaw and Jolana Pieczynski, who stood either side of Irene Adler. The woman in question lifted her gaze to meet Mycroft’s, mouth outlined in deep red lipstick quirking into a questioning smile. “Mycroft Holmes,” she said. “What a treat.”

Mycroft stood aside to let the three of them in. 

“Do you need us?” Jolana asked.

Mycroft regarded Irene for a moment. “No,” he decided. “We’ll be fine.”

“We’ll be in the village nearby,” Jolana told him. She took Cliff by the elbow and led him back outside. 

Irene rested her hands on her hips watching as the door closed. “Your bodyguard wasn’t much of a talker,” she said. 

“He never is,” Mycroft murmured, sweeping his eyes over her black dress and heels. 

Irene smiled. “If another man looked at me that way, I’d think he was planning to seduce me. I’m not armed, nor dangerous.”

“Not with conventional weapons, no.”

Irene laughed, something soft with an air of incredulity. “You de-armed me long ago, Mycroft Holmes.” She took a few steps towards him, wrapped her fingers around his bicep and kissed the air beside his cheek. He smelled her sweet perfume, rich and expensive. “I take it that it’s only you and I here.”

“It is,” he agreed.

She regarded him before stepping back, looking around the hallway. “I’m waiting for you to lead the way.”

Mycroft held the door open to the living room. “After you, Miss Adler.”

She strode past him, heels clicking on the floor, leaving a suitcase in the hall. She stopped in the doorway, assessing her surroundings, before lowering herself into a high-backed chair, crossing her legs and clasping her hands in her lap.

“I thought we would have fish for dinner,” Mycroft said, as he moved to the settee opposite. “Does that suit you?”

“Fish is fine.”

“You look nervous.”

She arched her eyebrow. “That would be a fair summary of how I feel.”

Mycroft smiled and reached for the decanter. He poured them each a glass of red wine. “How are you?”

“I’m fine. Bored mostly.”

“You played the game, and you lost. I think you’re living a life of luxury in the circumstances.” 

“Did you hear me complain about my circumstances?”

“No.” Mycroft sipped from his glass, and noted Irene only did so after him. He smiled, amused. “Did you think I was going to poison you?”

“I don’t know what you’re planning to do, frankly. But I can’t say you make me feel safe.”

“My apologies. I’ve been a terrible host.” Mycroft stood up. “Let me show you to your room.”

“I’m staying?”

“For a night or two, yes.” Mycroft took her suitcase upstairs, Irene following behind him. He opened the door to what had been Sherlock’s room. The bedside light was already on, the tall wardrobes casting shadows on the carpet. 

Irene laughed and stepped in. She stroked her hand along the foot of the single bed, and glanced at the scientific posters on the walls. “I don’t even need to ask who this belonged to.”

“I thought it would appeal to your…” Mycroft gestured, not sure of the word.

“Nostalgia?” she asked.

“Sense of humour.”

Irene smiled as she gazed around the room. “It does.”

“I should make dinner. The bathroom is down the hallway to your left. Please make yourself comfortable. We have a lot to discuss.”

“Do we?”

“Yes.”

“And we’re eating fish.”

He raised his eyebrows. “Do you not like fish?”

“It’s not my favourite, but I’m sure it will be fine. I’m rather glad you didn’t ask me what I wanted for dinner, really.”

“Why is that?”

“I’d have thought it was going to be my final meal.”

Mycroft smiled coolly at her. “You’re too useful to me to have you killed,” he said, absently leaving a ‘yet’ hanging in the air as he strolled back downstairs. He cooked pasta and salmon in a cream sauce. Irene was already sat in the dining room when he carried the dishes through. Her hair was still damp from her shower, and she hadn’t bothered to put make-up on. She had dressed plainly, in a grey t-shirt and jeans, yet she was still a striking woman. More so, perhaps, without her mask. 

“You really cooked this?” she asked as they both began eating. 

“I do have to eat.”

“I always assumed you had a personal chef.”

Mycroft smiled. “Cooking is quite relaxing.”

“I agree,” Irene said, taking a bite and nodding. “Not too bad.”

“I suppose I should be honest with you about why you’re here.”

“I’d appreciate that.”

“I want to talk to you about secrets. More specifically, the secrets of the Britain’s rich and powerful.”

Irene sat back in her chair. “I used to be the premier authority on Britain’s rich and powerful.” She shot him a pointed look. “But I’ve been out of action for quite a long time.” 

“You left London or you died. There was no other option.”

“I wasn’t criticising. I’m aware I owe you my life. And that’s not easy for me to admit. Having to live at your beckon call isn’t a life I would have chosen for myself.”

Mycroft lifted his chin. “What would you have chosen?” he asked.

“I made use of my skill-set. I lived the only way I ever could have done. Just as, I suspect, you have done. You and I aren’t so different. We both use our talents to use people and to seek knowledge. We may have used that knowledge in different ways, but we both know our way around English society.”

“I don’t disagree.”

Irene sighed and poured herself another glass of wine. “What do you want to know?” she asked.

“I think someone wants to kill me.”

Irene raised her eyebrows. “Is that really such a shock?”

“I don’t know who wants to kill me.”

“Is the list of suspects really so long?” she asked. 

“What do you think?” he replied, tucking back into his dinner.

Irene hummed, and they ate in silence for a while. “I tend to think of British society rather like a family tree,” she finally said. “And by British society, I mean, the Establishment.”

“How so?”

“Well, it all links, doesn’t it? Start with the royal family. They live outside of society, yet they’re forced to interact with politicians, both at home and abroad, on a regular basis. They meet the world’s dignitaries and they listen to political debates. The Queen approves our laws. However, their views, alliances, secrets are all inaccessible to the likes of you. Inaccessible to everyone really. Unless, of course, you know how to hack a phone.”

Mycroft frowned. “So, where are they? On your family tree.”

“Think of them like a distant cousin. Relevant to society, but not truly able to take an active role. They exist, but mostly they are forced, through circumstance, to ignore their own views. They’re… inactive participants. However, they are linked to the politicians, of course.”

“The Prime Minister, more than the others.”

Irene hummed. “Very true. And politicians are elected, so, of course, they can change every five years. Not that they do very often. Every single one of them is on a quest for power. They can argue they stood for office because they wanted to change the world, but really it’s because they’re all so arrogant, they think they have the answers to everything. But they live in other people’s pockets. They may have power, but they rely on others to maintain it.”

“Businessmen.”

Irene nodded. “Businessmen, who provide money to the political parties. The trade unions. The people with the dough. However, very few of them know how to play the game. They may keep secrets, but often, they’re not big secrets. Only a handful of them get any real power and even fewer of them know how to use it. Media magnates hold secrets. And they can influence the nation’s opinion. But the fact is, Mycroft, you and I both know who wields true power. Politicians come and go, but civil servants keep their jobs through all the changes in the cabinet. They’re the ghosts no one remembers. Shadows. You know who I’m talking about.”

“I do.”

“You’re one of those shadows. The most important of them. Of course someone is trying to kill you. Plenty of people are probably trying to kill you. Or at least thinking about it.”

“I know.”

Irene frowned. “And yet… usually they don’t get very far. But someone has. You wouldn’t have asked me this, unless someone had got close.”

They both looked up at the knock on the front door. “Excuse me,” Mycroft murmured, rising from the table. He went to the door, and smiled at the woman with ginger hair, cat-like eyes wide with confusion. “Follow me,” he told her, taking her bag. 

“Who are you?” she asked, shoulders raised as she looked around.

“That’s not important at the moment.” He led her down the hallway and into the dining room. He stood to one side to let the woman enter, and, for a moment, there was silence. 

Then Irene got to her feet, holding a shaking hand out. The woman took it, as they both stared at one another. “Kate,” Irene whispered. Mycroft turned away as their lips met in a hurried kiss, as they clung to one another. He could hear their shaky breaths, the startled whispering of names, and he took his leave, closing the door behind him. 

Irene joined him in the living room an hour later, her cheeks flushed, eyes soft. “Did you bring her here for me?” she asked.

Mycroft nodded. “I took care of her. As I promised you I would.”

Irene swallowed. “Thank you,” she whispered.

“Go to bed, Irene. We’ll continue this conversation in the morning.” 

“Thank you,” she said again, and closed the door.

* * *

Mycroft was drinking a cup of tea and reading The Times when Irene joined him in the kitchen in the morning. “Kate’s gone for a walk,” she said, taking a seat at the table. “Why did you bring her here?”

“You told me you were bored. And that you were living as a ghost. I suspected you were lonely. Was I wrong?”

“No. Still. It’ll hurt her more when I go again.”

“It seems as though she is willing to take that hurt. She’s waited this long for you.”

“I told her not to.”

“It isn’t that easy, though, is it?”

Irene poured herself a tea. “Did you know she has a PhD in astrophysics?”

Mycroft raised his eyebrows. “No, I didn’t.”

“She does. She’s put her whole life on hold because of me. She won’t go and work in a university and do research.”

“Why not?”

“Because she can’t use her name, in case someone finds her and tortures her to get to me.”

“You should have said. I would have changed her identity.”

“She won’t do it,” Irene said, staring at her mug, eyes blank. “Because she thinks it’ll make it harder for me to find her again when I come back. I tried telling her to forget about me…”

“But she won’t do it.”

“No.”

“The things we do for love.”

Irene sighed. “Would you even know?” she asked.

Mycroft shrugged a shoulder. “The less you know about me, the better.”

“Because it gives you power over me.”

“Because I don’t trust you.”

“If I betrayed you, you’d tell someone where I was. I’d be dead within days.”

“Then we’re in a holding pattern. That suits me, for the moment.”

She sighed and ran a hand through her hair. “Why am I here?”

“Because I live in a world full of liars, and I can’t work out who I can trust.”

She tapped her nails against the table. “How do you know someone wants you dead?”

“Because Sebastian Moran walked right into my building and threatened me with a gun.”

Irene raised her eyebrows. “Perhaps only Moran wants to kill you?”

“He’s working for someone. With someone. He has to be. If he really wanted me dead, he would have done it in the street. He would have found me and killed me. He’s dragging it out. Why do that, unless someone wants something from me? ”

“I don’t know who.”

“I know. I know you don’t have the answers. I just hoped…” He fiddled with his mug and put it down. “I don’t know what I hoped for.”

Irene reached across the table, dragging the newspaper closer to her. She flicked through the pages, not stopping to read anything. “Before I left London, there was a group of people who dealt with secrets, more secrets, than anyone else had access to. There was you, me, James Moriarty, Charles Augustus Magnussen, and the Prime Minister. No one else had more knowledge than that group. Now, only three of you are left. The Prime Minister, you and Magnussen. And you’re in a holding pattern, because you all have each other’s secrets. One cannot target the other, without being exposed. It’s safe that way.”

“Then someone else has access to those secrets. Someone else is… involved.”

“Moran?”

“He’s not clever enough.”

“Then whoever Moran is working for or with.”

“Yes,” Mycroft whispered. “Yes.”

“On a few occasions, before I got involved with Moriarty, I got in over my head. If I had to use my secrets to gain something, and they were not good on their promises, then I would use someone I trusted to make those stories public.”

“You would sell them to the press.”

“Or leak them on the internet. The Prime Minister or Magnussen or anyone who knows about you could have sold their secrets to someone. To gain… anything they wanted. Money… or power.”

“Then it could be anyone.”

“Something must have changed.”

“Nothing’s changed.”

“Sherlock’s back.”

Mycroft pursed his lips, frowning. “I suppose so. But this isn’t about Sherlock.”

“How do you know?”

“I…” He frowned. “I have no logical reason to know that. Sherlock is as much of a target to Moran as I am, and yet he targeted me. He isn’t interested in Sherlock. At least… not at the moment.”

“I’m not sure I can help you.”

“Nor am I.” Mycroft sank back in his chair. “I can see a pattern emerging. I listened to Moran’s words and heard threats. But I can’t see the full picture.”

“Of course you can’t. If you could see it, then you would be dead, or your enemy would be. While you’re in the dark, you’re not a threat.”

“I’m being toyed with.”

“People with secrets always play games. How many enemies do you have?”

“Too many.”

“How many dangerous enemies do you have?”

Mycroft rubbed his forehead. “I don’t know.”

“Dangerous enemies don’t just carry weapons. They have secrets. You already know that, that’s why you called me here. Someone must know about you. They must know something you’d rather they didn’t. Your brother?”

“Everyone knows Sherlock.”

“The other one.”

Mycroft swallowed. “It isn’t… if anyone dug deep enough, they’d find it. If it was exposed, I could live with it. I’d keep my job.”

“It doesn’t have to be something that’s true. It just has to be doubt, planted into someone’s head. That’s how Moriarty took Sherlock down. Has anyone got reason to doubt you?”

‘Everyone’ Mycroft thought. Everyone he had ever manipulated, manoeuvred, betrayed, argued with. “Remind me of your family tree theory.”

“Everyone’s connected,” she said. 

“Including the criminal classes?”

“Of course. They link to businessmen, politicians, civil servants… How else did the Waters Gang escape so many times? They must have had help.”

“They were working with Moran…”

“Moran must have been working with someone else. Someone with some authority. The Waters Gang are good, but they’re no geniuses. Neither is Moran. Who does Moran connect with?”

“Mary Morstan. I don’t know how, but there’s a connection there.”

“Who?”

“John Watson’s fiancee.”

Irene raised her eyebrows. “So, she’s new.”

“Yes.”

“Who else?” 

“Lord Moran’s brother…” 

“The terrorist?”

Mycroft paused, considering. “Yes.”

“Where is he now?”

“Awaiting trial, or sentencing. I don’t believe he has entered a plea yet.”

Irene looked up from the newspaper. “When was he arrested?”

“In November.”

“And he still hasn’t entered a plea? What are they doing with him?”

Mycroft frowned. “I want you to find out what you can about Mary Morstan. Use all your contacts.”

“Mycroft…”

He lifted his eyes to hers. “I’m not sending you into danger. I’m asking you to listen to the whispers.” 

“From my home in Monaco or Buenos Aires?”

“Ireland.”

She paled. “I wouldn’t be safe in Ireland.”

“I’ll send people to watch over you. I’ll change your identity and you can change your hair. You’re an actress in the bedroom, Irene. I’m sure you can become an actress in all areas of your life.”

“If it were that easy to pick yourself up and become somebody else, everyone would be living happier lives. We’re stuck, Mr Holmes. We’ve already started down a road we cannot turn back from. I can’t become anyone else.”

Mycroft rose from his seat, and regarded her. “I hope, for all our sakes, that is not true. Excuse me.” He went to the study, where he remained for the rest of the day. When he went to the dining room, he found only a note from Irene, saying ‘keep in touch’. 

The next day, he heard Irene and Kate were in Ireland and secure, and he could not ask for more than that. 

* * *

Mads found the footage of Lord Moran’s arrest. Mycroft watched the video as the man tried to sneak out of his hotel room. He jammed his finger against the button for the lift. But if he had truly expected he could run away, why not use the stairs? Mycroft wondered. Why wait for the lift at all? Lord Moran was calm as he lifted his hands above his head as he was confronted with three armed agents. Almost as though he had expected it. As though he knew he would be caught…

Mycroft frowned and called Anthea. “Why is Lord Moran’s trial taking so long?” he asked.

“He hasn’t said a word. Not to anyone, about anything. They have doctors assessing him, but if he won’t speak then he won’t issue a plea… They’re stuck at the moment.”

“He won’t speak?”

“Not a word. He sits in silence in every interview. He doesn’t even talk to himself in his cell.”

“There’s something there,” Mycroft told her. “I’m not sure what it is, but there’s something to that. I want every piece of CCTV on his movements prior to the arrest that we can get. Every shred of evidence police have on him.”

“It might take some time to pull together.”

“It takes as long as it takes. Just get me it all.” 

* * *

Kamik Toor’s sister-in-law let Mycroft into the house. It was filled with family members, and smelt of food and sweet tea. Kamik’s wife was a beautiful woman, young and poised, keeping unshed tears at bay with the sheer strength of her personality. She would let them fall when she was alone, Mycroft thought.

“He always said so much about you,” she said when she led Mycroft to the kitchen to fetch him some dal and flatbread. “He said everything good that ever happened to him was because of you. He was so happy working for you.”

“I was… I was lucky to have him. He was excellent at his work.”

“You work for the Government?”

“Yes.”

“I’ve been told by the police that the best people are working on his murder. Is that true?”

“It is,” Mycroft told her, though he doubted she would ever see justice done. They knew the killer, yes, but there was a bigger picture at play here. Even if they captured Moran, would they put him on trial? Or would they find a way to dispense with him through back channels? Mycroft thought the latter was more likely. Allowing Moran’s existence to become public knowledge could unravel a whole host of scandals. 

Kamik’s wife handed him the food. “Thank you,” she whispered. She led him back through to the living room, and he let the family’s conversation wash over him, their love for Kamik so clear in their every word, before he left them to mourn in peace.

* * *

Sherlock called him on the day of the Watson-Morstan wedding, and of course his brother claimed he was in no way emotionally involved, when it was so obvious, even the most oblivious person in the planet would see it.

He was so involved, he couldn’t see anything strange about Mary Morstan. Wouldn’t even entertain the possibility that there was something not quite right about her. 

It was long into the evening when Mycroft’s phone rang again. He stared down at Greg’s name, thumb hovering over the answer button. He’d put off speaking to him for so many days, he had eventually decided it was best for Greg to reach out first. Still, it ached to think Greg would still be angry at him. He swallowed before answering. “Hello?”

“Hi," Greg said. "It’s me.”

“I know.”

“Yeah. Right. Look, will you just… send a car round to have me taken to wherever you are?”

Mycroft paused. “Are you sure?”

“Mycroft, I don’t even know what we’re fighting over.”

Mycroft and tapped a quick message to Anthea on his laptop. “There’s a car on its way, the driver will text when he arrives. I’ll meet you at home.”

“Crusader House?”

“Yes.”

Greg sighed. “Alright. Alright, I’ll see you there.” 

It only took a few minutes for Mycroft to pack his things and slide into Malcolm’s waiting car. He watched out of the window as they returned to London. He checked on the cats and undressed for bed, feeling comforted by finding everything was exactly the same as he had left it. 

Mycroft looked up from his book as Greg walked in an hour later, shrugging out of his suit jacket. “Hey,” Greg said, voice tight. 

“How was Sherlock’s speech?”

“Really good. He made people cry in a good way. There was a big problem with a murder, but… well, it is Sherlock.”

Mycroft hummed, taking a moment to study him. He looked wonderful in the suit. In ordinary circumstances, Mycroft would have savoured undressing him, would have kissed him everywhere. Tonight, there was only distance between them.

Greg yanked his tie off and sighed as he slumped down on the edge of the bed, looking over his shoulder at Mycroft. “Go on then,” he said. “Where’ve you been?”

“My ancestral home.”

“The whole time?”

“No. I went to work first. And I also visited my driver’s wife to offer my condolences.”

Greg’s eyes softened, and he shuffled up to sit at Mycroft’s side. “What was his name?” Greg asked.

“Kamik Toor. He was 19 when I met him. He was living and working in India. He was an assistant for one of the men I was meeting there. He wasn’t treated well. His boss was corrupt. Mr Toor was paid a fraction of what he was due, but he accepted it with a smile. So I brought him to England and gave him a job as my driver. Over the past five years, he came to be my favourite of all of them. He married his young wife and they had two twin daughters.”

“Shit. I’m so sorry, Mycroft.”

Mycroft nodded and took a sip of his tea. “Do you know why I brought him to England, Greg?”

“No.”

“It wasn’t to improve his prospects. It wasn’t because I liked him. It was because it meant he owed me. And those who owe you something can offer the greatest amount of loyalty. Saying that, I did grow to respect him. He deserved far better.”

Greg frowned. “Your reasons for bringing him here doesn’t make the good it did for him mean any less.”

“He’s dead, Greg. He was killed by a trained sniper for no reason other than he was in his way or he wanted to hurt me. And if it was to hurt me then… Do you know what that means?”

Greg shook his head. “What does that mean?”

“It means Moran truly believes that I am too sentimental and think with my heart.”

“What’s wrong with that?”

Mycroft raised his eyebrows. “What’s right with it? Caring about people makes you weak. Look at Sherlock. Moriarty exposed his one main weakness - those he cared about. Why else did Moran target you? It was to get to me through my heart.”

Greg took a deep breath. “Mycroft what are you getting at?”

“I’m not getting at anything, I’m stating hypotheses.”

Greg folded his arms. “You know what it sounds like to me? It sounds like you resent me.”

Mycroft frowned at him. “Does it?”

“Yes! It sounds like you regret caring for me because it makes you weak and it means people go after you.”

“That is a concern,” Mycroft murmured.

“Then get over it,” Greg snapped. “We’re getting a bloody house together, Mycroft. We have been together for two-and-a-half years, and it would have been more like eight-and-a-half years if you never broke up with me because you got scared. It’s fine to freak out a bit. But it is not fine to throw away the things you love because some bastard with a gun thinks it makes you weak.”

“It does-”

Greg smacked his hand down on the bed. “It doesn’t! Because if you care about something, Mycroft, then you’ve got something to lose. And I think if you’ve got something to lose, then you’ve got something to fight for. So bloody well fight for it and don’t just sit there whining like a child who just dropped their ice cream on the floor. Moran’s a psycho. So go after him.”

Mycroft opened his mouth and then closed it again.

“Good,” Greg muttered. Then he turned to Mycroft, his mouth twitching into a smug smile. “And for the record, Magnussen is after Mary already. And I know this because her maid of honour now has a job as his personal assistant.”

Mycroft stared at him. “Really?”

“Yeah, her name’s Janine. See how useful it would have been for you to come to the night do rather than locking yourself away in your stately home?”

“It’s not a-”

“-Don’t answer back right now, Mycroft,” Greg said. “You ran away for a whole week and the only reason I knew where you were was because Anthea told me.”

“She shouldn’t have done that.”

“I don’t care. And don’t you dare have a go at her for this either. This has got to stop. You don’t lock me out, Mycroft. If you want to be alone, I understand that. But you tell me you want to be alone. You don’t just shout at me, storm out and then not call.”

Mycroft took a long breath, hanging his head. “I apologise.”

“Good. Thank you. Apology accepted. So is this it then? Is this our life? Mad men breaking in and pointing guns to my head?”

“No one has ever broken into Crusader House before.”

Greg snorted. “Great. That’s just great.”

Mycroft’s chest ached. “Greg, I’m sorry I got you involved in all of this.”

“Mycroft, you don’t get it, do you? I want to be involved. I signed up for this so I could be with you. It’s what I want.”

Mycroft took hold of Greg’s hand. “I don’t know how you put up with me.”

Greg smiled. “Neither do I sometimes, but I muddle through.”

“I know I make things difficult sometimes. But I wouldn’t end this, not for anything.”

Greg scooted closer to him. “Thank you,” he said.

* * *

Mycroft woke up in the middle of the night, Greg’s chest pressed against his back, an arm draped over his middle. Rubbing the sleep out of his eyes, he got up to use the bathroom. When he returned, Greg was lying on his back, scrolling through this phone.

“I’m sorry I woke you,” Mycroft murmured, settling back under the covers on his side and placing his hand on Greg’s thigh. 

Greg put his phone to the side and rolled over to face him. “I was awake already, to be honest.” 

“You couldn’t sleep?”

“I’ve been in and out.”

“Do you want to talk about anything?”

Greg shrugged and shuffled closer, pressing a kiss to Mycroft’s chin. “I’m still a bit mad at you.”

“Understandable.”

“It is. But I don’t want to be mad at you. I have forgiven you. But I haven’t forgotten it yet, if you know what I mean.”

“I thought it was easier to go away,” Mycroft admitted, resting a hand against Greg’s chest and spreading out his fingers. “I needed some time to clear my head. But I should have told you what I was doing.”

“Yeah, you should. If you’d just told me where you were… Look, of course I’d always prefer it if you were with me, but I understand you need a time out sometimes. I’m never going to get in the way of that.”

“I won’t leave again. Not like that.”

“Yeah, you will,” Greg replied, but Mycroft could hear the smile in his voice. 

“Yes, probably,” Mycroft conceded with a sigh. “But I will tell you where I am.”

“And then you’ll come home. And I won’t be as mad next time.” 

“Are you feeling any better?” Mycroft asked.

“I’m feeling like I might be able to get back to sleep.” 

Mycroft kissed him, and waited as Greg re-arranged himself until he was lying on his back and Mycroft could shuffle closer and rest his cheek against his shoulder. Lying beside him, Mycroft knew what he had been missing. Running away solved nothing. He was no clearer than he was before he’d left, and only Greg’s touch truly soothed him.  I won’t run anymore, he promised himself. If, and when, we run, we run together.


	75. Artist's Impression

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm adding /another/ chapter... the last one will be more of an epilogue, however. We are nearly there. I realise not a lot happens in the last two chapters, but if I posted it as I had planned, I think TOO much would have happened. Meh, it's my story, this is how it's happening. I hope you enjoy it :)

**August 2014.**

**Location: Cedar Court, Kingston, London.**

The day after they moved into their new home, Mycroft wondered if they had made a mistake and whether Cedar Court was far too big for them after all. Even with every room allocated a use, he thought they would echo around the place, that they would never be able to make such a big house into a home.

The cats took to it as only animals could, exploring every room and finding new windows to peer out of. Moving had been an exhausting affair, and it took a lot of effort for Mycroft to move from their bedroom to the kitchen to make breakfast. 

But on the Sunday night, as Greg cooked dinner and Mycroft reviewed his plans for the week to come, he felt something settle over him. He would stay at the house on Monday morning, he thought. He would work from home. He could do a lot of work from home. And far from feeling as though he would be stranded in the middle of no where, missing things, he thought it gave him a new freedom. 

He would work in his office, get up to walk around the house or the grounds during his lunch break (and he would have a lunch break, because he would force himself to). Finally, he thought, he and Greg would create a stable home environment, away from the hustle and bustle of central London.

It was so peaceful, so quiet. It was everything he hadn’t realised he had been lacking. 

He walked through the house switching off lights as they went to bed. He wrapped a hand around Greg’s wrist, stopping him. “What?” Greg asked, looking over his shoulder and smiling. 

Mycroft took his hand, and led him back down the hallway. He opened one door. “This room is going to be your office.”

Greg blinked at him. “Yeah, I know.”

Mycroft turned to him, a small smile beginning on the corner of his lips. “I thought… I thought I should remind you we’ve only christened the bedroom and the bathroom so far…”

Greg’s grin widened. “Oh yeah. You’re right.”

Mycroft lowered himself down onto his knees, running his hands up Greg’s jeans from ankle to waist. 

“Fuck…” Greg muttered, his hand resting on the back of Mycroft’s head. “I thought you said you were tired.”

Mycroft hummed and unfastened his jeans, letting the denim open as he popped each button open with deliberate precision. “I was. Now I’m not.” 

Greg took a step back until he was leaning against the wall of the darkened room. Mycroft shifted a box aside with his knee so he could get closer, hooked his thumbs into Greg’s jeans to ease them down over his hips and down those splendid, muscular thighs. He kissed them, groping Greg’s buttocks, squeezing, luxuriating in the feel of his body. “All this, all for me,” Mycroft whispered, kissing his hipbone, feeling Greg’s cock, still tucked inside his navy cotton underwear, harden against his cheek. 

“Mycroft,” Greg breathed, fingers brushing through Mycroft’s hair, a constant rhythm as though he would lose focus entirely if he stopped petting him. 

Mycroft lingered, kissing his length through the fabric, fingers stroking the inside of Greg’s thighs, brushing against his balls. Greg pushed his hips forward, but Mycroft kept teasing, kept kissing. 

“Please,” Greg groaned. “You’re a bloody nightmare…”

Mycroft smirked and flicked his eyes up to his face, fingers stroking along his length. “Sorry, I’m what?”

Greg groaned and tilted his head back. “Fuck, please.”

“Very well, if you insist…” Pressing a kiss to his belly through his t-shirt, Mycroft peeled his underwear down, wetting his lips as he exposed all of him. But he couldn’t resist teasing, pressing wet kisses along his cock, against his hips, his thighs. Greg’s knees shook, and Mycroft finally wrapped his lips around him, taking him as far as he could into his mouth. 

He was greeted with uninhibited groans from above, Greg’s fingers tightening in his hair and then slackening again as he tried to hold onto his control. 

Mycroft eased one hand into his own trousers, almost moaning with his own relief as he wrapped a hand around himself. He imagined how they must look, in the shadows, two silhouettes, with Mycroft, one of the most powerful, well-connected men in the country down on his knees. His breath hitched with an extra surge of arousal, and he sucked harder, revelling in the dull ache of his jaw because he was basking in the knowledge that only he could make Greg shudder and shake like this. 

Something about their surroundings, the light peeking through from the hallway, the smell of fresh paint, the new, cushioned carpet beneath his knees, had Mycroft arching into his hand as he came. 

“God, Mycroft, did you just… Oh god…” Greg trembled as he came, hand resting possessively on the back of Mycroft’s head. Mycroft pulled back and swallowed, pressing light kisses around his groin. “Oh, shit,” Greg whispered. “Did you…”

“Yes,” Mycroft whispered, wiping his hand on Greg’s jeans, for want of somewhere else. Greg hardly seemed to notice as he took Mycroft’s hands and pulled him to his feet and kissed what was left of his breath from him.

* * *

**September 2014.**

**Location: Cedar Court, Kingston, London.**

He sat down to read through some Government paper’s while keeping half an eye on the television showing the Parliamentary enquiry into phone-hacking. Lady Smallwood was interviewing Magnussen, and Mycroft experienced a shiver of repulsion go up his spine as the man started speaking. The enquiry into Magnussen wouldn’t get anywhere, Mycroft suspected. Magnussen kept himself far enough from the day-to-day running of his media empire that he couldn’t possibly be implicated.

“I notice you had seven meetings at Downing Street this year,” Lady Smallwood said. “Why?”

“Because I was invited,” Magnussen replied.

Mycroft had to roll his eyes. Lady Smallwood was not going to get anywhere with this line of questioning. Magnussen was a snake, he could slither out of anything. And even if Magnussen was content to let the Prime Minister’s secrets slip, Lady Smallwood would be in trouble with the Prime Minister for allowing that line of questioning in the first place. 

“You’re backing yourself into a corner,” Mycroft muttered to Lady Smallwood, as though she could hear him, as he replied to some emails from Hugh Seagroves and Ruth Barker. 

“Mr Magnussen,” she continued. “Why did you think you were being invited to Downing Street?”

“For a conversation,” he answered, staring directly at her.

“About what?” 

Magnussen smiled, a slow, controlled thing. “Whatever the Prime Minister desired we talk about.”

“Did you record these meetings?”

“No.”

“This isn’t the committee’s focus,” Mycroft said to the television. She would be fired if she wasn’t careful, and then Mycroft would lose his best contact in the Government. 

It was a relief when Mads called him, a welcome distraction from the debacle unfolding in front of him. “How is everything in the office without me?” Mycroft asked. 

“It’s fine, sir,” Mads said. “I’ve only called because the facial recognition system has just completed its search for Lord Moran.”

“And?”

“I’ve drawn up a map of his movements, as much as we can track him, anyway. I’ve drawn it on a computer system, so you can see where he goes on a daily basis.”

Mycroft clicked on Msds’ email as it arrived. “Anything unusual?”

“No. He goes home and to the Government offices, mostly.”

“Mostly?”

“He goes out to restaurants sometimes.”

“Mads…”

“Sorry, sir, sorry. I know you like specifics.” There was a long pause. “Okay, I’ve got one unusual meeting that stands out. In September 2013, he visited a big office block in London… Cam Media.”

Mycroft frowned. “Say that again.”

“He visited the Cam Media offices.”

“He visited Magnussen,” Mycroft murmured, frowning. “He visited Magnussen in September 2013, when he was on the committee for the Anti-Terrorism and Investigatory Powers Bill.” And Moran had visited Magnussen too, with documents relating to Mary Morstan. Mycroft had enemies in powerful places… “Please send me the map,” Mycroft said. “And I want you to get a list of everything he was working on prior to 2013. Everything going back to… 2005.”

“Yes, sir. I’ll get right on it.” 

Mycroft hung up the phone and tapped his fingers on his desk. He looked over to the television, where Magnussen was still avoiding answering Lady Smallwood’s questions. “What did Lord Moran give you?” Mycroft asked aloud, staring at the man’s face.

“No one ever suggested anything untoward,” Magnussen told the enquiry. Somehow Mycroft doubted that very much.  

* * *

Mycroft returned home one afternoon carrying a portrait under one arm. He hadn’t intended to buy the work, but it was relatively inexpensive, and he had been captivated by the painting. It was a [portrait of an unknown man by an unknown artist](http://sandstead.com/images/quadrangle/Unknown_Artist_Springfield_Quadrangle_source_sandstead_d2h_0023.jpg), and somehow that added to its appeal. He was a magnificent man in the portrait, though, attractive and almost sultry.

Mycroft left it on the dining room table while he wandered through the house trying to find the best place to hang it. The man in the portrait wore a yellow waistcoat, and Mycroft wanted it to fit the room it went into. 

He chose a guest bedroom, the one they had painted neutrally, and hung it himself. When Greg got home, he took his hand and led him to the room so he could see it.

Greg raised his eyebrows. “He has Sherlock’s hair.”

“What?” Mycroft stared at the painting. “He looks nothing like Sherlock.”

“No, you’re right, but he has his hair. I assumed that’s why you liked it.”

Mycroft frowned. “This is all getting a bit too Freudian for my liking.”

Greg laughed. “I mean, I see why you like it. Even if he does have Sherlock’s hair, he is very…”

“Attractive?”

“He’s a bit of alright, yeah,” Greg agreed, stepping back to admire the painting from a distance. “Who is he?”

“I’ve no idea. I liked that about him. He’s mysterious and proud and… haughty.”

“Yeah, doesn’t sound a bit like anyone we know…”

Mycroft sighed, defeated. He tilted his head. “He does seem a bit like Sherlock, doesn’t he?”

“Sorry, love.”

“No, it’s fine, I’d rather you were honest with me. I thought I bought it because I happened to like the painting. Perhaps I was trying to get something else from it.”

Greg rested a hand between Mycroft’s shoulder blades, stroking round in a slow circle. “I don’t know. Maybe? You’ll never get Sherlock to look like this in a photo. He always looks… empty in pictures in the press. Just a man with cheekbones and a hat.”

“You may be right.” Mycroft rubbed his forehead. “Perhaps I would prefer it if I could pause time for a while. Sit down with Sherlock and understand what he actually wants from life. At least this man won’t go anywhere.” 

“I think Sherlock’s got what he wants,” Greg answered. “He likes running around London, he’s got a best mate who lets him and follows him everywhere. I wouldn’t worry too much, Mycroft.”

“He’s been very quiet lately. He shrugs off his protection on a daily basis. I don’t even understand how he does it, they are the best in the business… I don’t know how he just disappears.”

Greg’s hands rested on his Mycroft’s shoulders from behind. “What’s going on? You didn’t get all this just because you bought a painting today.”

“I don’t know, is the honest answer. I wasn’t aware I was even thinking this. I’m not sure he’s happy, Greg.”

“You’re how much older than him?”

“Seven years.”

“Right, and we’ve only just bought this house together. He’s seven years behind you. He might meet someone, settle down. He might not. But I don’t think he’s unhappy, love.”

“He left the wedding early.”

“Yeah, but it was a big day. All those people around him, constantly? You find parties exhausting too.”

“I know you’re right.”

“But?”

“I worry about him.”

“So do I,” Greg said, resting his chin on Mycroft’s shoulder. “But he’s not alone. Neither are you. We’re going to be okay.”

“You have a lot of faith in that.”

“I have to believe it.”

Mycroft threaded their fingers together, tilting his head as he studied the portrait. “I feel sure this man wanted to look this way. To be well-dressed and… unobtainable.”

“He had to put himself in the artist’s hands though.”

“Yes… It must have been difficult for people who lived at the beginning of popular photography though. In portrait, in paint, you can portray yourself in the way you want to be seen. But with photographs… you can’t hide from them. You can lift your chin up, but you can’t portray yourself the way you want to be portrayed forever. Not if the photographers are always watching you.” He tightened his grip on Greg’s fingers. Not if people are always watching...

“Mycroft?” Greg prompted. “Okay?”

Mycroft turned around, wrapping his arms around Greg’s waist, resting his cheek on his shoulder. He sighed as Greg’s arms wound around him. “Something’s coming, Greg. Someone wants… I don’t know what they want.”

Greg squeezed him, but stayed silent. That Greg couldn’t say ‘it’ll be okay’ only added to his sense of foreboding. 

* * *

**Location: Coeur de Lion Offices, Mayfair.**

When John Watson called to say Sherlock had taken drugs again, Mycroft was hardly surprised. “I should have paid more attention to him,” he muttered to Anthea as he collected his coat.

“You can’t follow him every second of every day. He’s too good at avoiding your cameras now. He’s a grown-up.”

“Is he?” Mycroft asked, raising his eyebrows. “I’d wish he’d act like it.”

“Will you be done in time for lunch with the Prime Minister?”

Mycroft checked his pocket watch. “Yes, yes, I’ll be ready for that.” He swept out of the building and down to the car. He let Philip Anderson into 221B Baker Street to search for drugs and sat on the stairs waiting for his brother.  He fiddled with his phone, scrolling through his emails without really reading any of them. When was the last time Sherlock had taken drugs? In India, while he was hunting down Moriarty’s web? Probably after that, it could have happened at any time while he was away from London. 

He put his phone away when the pair of them came in, straightened his shoulders, attempting to give off an air of indifference which often helped in conversations with his brother. His brother, dressed in a dirty tracksuit, with greasy hair and deep rings under his eyes. “Well, then, Sherlock,” Mycroft started. “Back on the sauce?”

“What are you doing here?” Sherlock asked.

“I phoned him,” John said. 

“You phoned him,” Sherlock repeated.

“’Course I bloody phoned him.”

Mycroft almost rolled his eyes. “’Course he bloody did. Now, save me a little time. Where should we be looking?”

“We?” Sherlock echoed. 

Philip Anderson called from upstairs, and Sherlock ran past Mycroft up the stairs. By the time Mycroft entered the room and properly assessed the situation, Sherlock had collapsed into his chair, curling up in it in a position which looked everything besides comfortable. He put his hood up, and Mycroft wondered, and perhaps a bit of him even hoped, that the light hurt his eyes. 

“You’re a celebrity these days, Sherlock,” Mycroft told him. “You can’t afford a drug habit.”

“I do not have a drug habit. There’s nothing to find.”

“Your bedroom door is shut,” Mycroft pointed out, starting towards it. “You haven’t been home all night. So, why would a man who has never knowingly closed the door without the direct orders of his mother bother to do so on this occasion?”

“Okay, stop!” Sherlock shouted. “Just stop. Point made.” Mycroft returned to the living room, as Sherlock stood up to face him. “This is not what you think. This is for a case.”

Mycroft narrowed his eyes. “What case could possibly justify this?”

“Magnussen,” Sherlock replied. Mycroft felt his blood turn cold. “Charles Augustus Magnussen.” No, Mycroft thought. No, Sherlock had to stay well away from that.

He turned to Anderson and the others who were searching for drugs. “That name you think you may have just heard,” Mycroft began, “you were mistaken. If you ever mention hearing that name in this room, in this context, I guarantee you – on behalf of the British security services – that materials will be found on your computer hard drives resulting in your immediate incarceration. Don’t reply, just look frightened and scuttle.” 

He waited until they left, looking as suitably frightened as Mycroft could have hoped for. “I hope I won’t have to threaten you as well,” Mycroft said turning to Sherlock. “Magnussen is not your business.”

“Oh, you mean he’s yours.”

“You may consider him under my protection.”

“I consider you under his thumb.”

Mycroft glared. “If you go against Magnussen, then you will find yourself going against me.” 

“Okay,” Sherlock replied, an etching of joy in his voice. “I’ll let you know if I notice.” Mycroft closed his eyes. Dammit, Sherlock, he thought. You don’t understand. Why do you never understand? “Er, what was I going to say?” Sherlock continued, nonchalant. “Oh, yeah.” He opened the door. “Bye-bye.”

Mycroft headed to the door, and turned to face him. “Unwise, brother mine,” he warned. 

Sherlock seized Mycroft’s arm, twisting it, fingers digging into his skin as he slammed him face-first into the wall. Mycroft yelled out, as Sherlock twisted his wrist. “Brother mine, don’t appal me when I’m high.”

Mycroft clenched his teeth, images of similar attacks by Sherlock rushing through his head, none of them ever ending well. Don’t fight, he told himself. You’ll only make him worse. 

“Mycroft, don’t say another word,” John said. “Just go. He could snap you in two, and right now I am slightly worried that he might.”

Mycroft pushed himself free, taking hold of his arm and grimacing. He left, heart racing, hardly noticing the ache from shoulder to wrist as he was driven straight to Downing Street. 

The staff had put on a nice meal for those attending, but Mycroft could only pick at the bread. It hurt too much to cut the meat, and he ended up leaving most of it. 

“Not hungry?” Hugh Seagroves asked.

“Dieting,” Mycroft replied irritably. 

The Prime Minister raised his eyebrows, but did not question him further. After polite conversation over lunch, they turned to the Anti-Terrorism and Investigatory Powers Bill.

“Everything is going as we hoped,” the Prime Minister said. “We’ve had a few petitions from anti-surveillance campaigners, but nothing sizable.”

“And we’ve stopped several attacks on British soil,” Nadia Swift told him. 

“Tremendous. We can never stop to celebrate, nor get complacent, but this is good progress indeed. Any luck with that Lord Moran fellow?”

“Not yet,” Nadia admitted. “He won’t say a word. We have evidence… and we could just put him on trial.”

“Let’s wait a little while longer, shall we?" the Prime Minister said. "A trial is all well and good, but I’d rather not have to give away some of MI5’s secrets. A guilty plea and swift sentencing would be preferable.”

“We could hold some of the hearing in secret,” Hugh suggested. “It may be the only way.”

“That’s not ideal,” Nadia said. “We get criticised for it.”

“Still, for the sake of national security?”

Nadia shrugged. “Give us a bit more time. We’ll get him speaking.”

“How?” Mycroft asked. 

“We’ll find the right topic. Maybe we haven’t pushed the right weaknesses yet.”

“It’s been 10 months, how long do you think the press will allow these delays for?” Mycroft pressed.

“The press will deal with it,” the Prime Minister said. “Lord Moran’s old news, as far as they’re concerned.”

Mycroft frowned. “How so?” he asked.

“They’ll be interested again when we tell them to be. Until then, they’re happy to wait.”

“Why?” Mycroft asked. “What have you offered them?”

The Prime Minister tucked into his dessert. “What makes you think we had to offer them something? Those editors are reasonable, most of the time.”

No, they’re not, Mycroft thought. He bit his tongue for the rest of the meeting. The Prime Minister didn’t like him as it was, better not to inflame this particular dragon.

He went home straight after, opting to make dinner and work on his laptop. He was sifting through Lord Moran’s work, but it was slow and boring business. He had only ever done his job, or so it appeared. There were was nothing to imply he harboured extreme thoughts or motives. He had even been outwardly supportive of the Armed Forces, despite what had happened to his brother.

He sat down for dinner with Greg, before they sunk into the bath together. Having Greg’s skin against his softened his mood, and the hot water and steam eased the ache in his shoulder. The frantic thoughts about Sherlock were dulled to the background state of worrying he usually allowed for his brother. 

Greg’s arms were wrapped around his middle, as he admitted to Mycroft he wanted to get married. 

“What is it about marriage which appeals to you?” Mycroft asked. “Why did you ask to marry Caroline and Jane?”

“I dunno. I guess it just seemed like the right thing to do.”

“The right thing for whom?” Mycroft asked. 

“It's just… the thing that people do when they’re in love and have been together a while.”

“And that’s exactly why I don’t want to do it,” Mycroft explained. “The world says ‘you have been together for a long time, but we don’t believe you are committed unless you stand up here in front of all of us and prove it’. I already know I’m committed. I know you are too." He paused to stroke Greg's fingers, and mulled Greg's difference of opinion over.

"I can see the appeal," Mycroft admitted. "I know Anthea was happier married than she was unmarried because it offered her a security she’d never felt before. But I feel secure. Our house, our life. We’re surrounded by noise and chaos on every side. When I close the door, I’m happier and quieter than I’ve ever been or felt. Marriage wouldn’t change anything for me. It would be an unremarkable day, in which rather than spending the time in your company telling you and showing you the depth of my affection, I have to share it with others. Marriage is a public union. I like the thought of sharing our lives with each other, without interference, without others turning it into a spectator sport. In short, I will show you I love you in private, for the rest of our lives.”

“I love you too,” Greg whispered.

Mycroft turned in his arms, straddling his lap, and holding Greg’s face in his hands. “Let me show you how much,” he said before he kissed him, bubbles getting between their faces. He wiped most of them away before kissing him again, and then Greg was the only thing he could concentrate on. 

They were laughing as they stumbled towards the bed, trying to get dry but too busy touching and kissing to put enough effort into it. Greg’s lips sought his, and then his neck and his jaw and Mycroft allowed him anything. They made it onto the bed, Mycroft straddling Greg’s hips, nuzzling him, peppering kisses over his chest. 

Greg was everything. He could switch off all the concerns in Mycroft’s head, and then turn him on like no one else ever had. Greg’s hands searched his skin, touched every intimate area that had him shuddering and gasping. 

He’d never been touched by anyone else in this way, with such reverence and understanding, as though Greg knew his body as well as he knew his own. 

Greg’s fingers eased him inside him, but it wasn’t enough, it was never enough. Mycroft stared down into his eyes, kissing him with every emotion he could possibly get across with his lips, trying to express every ounce of love he felt for this man. He never wanted to stop feeling this; like nothing could possibly go wrong. He had waited so many years to have it, hoped for so long without expectation, and having him still felt like a miracle every time. 

He didn’t appreciate Greg enough, he knew that, as he kissed him and pushed down on Greg’s cock, taking him inside. He didn’t give Greg all the good things he deserved, not enough time, not enough promises for what their future could be. But this was the best he could do, and somehow Greg stayed, somehow Greg loved him in ways Mycroft knew he had never been loved before. 

Their eyes were glued together as Mycroft began to move, and their kisses were messy and wet, breaths ragged as he rocked his hips. Mycroft wanted to whisper apologies into his heart, wanted to promise he would be better, that he could be everything Greg needed. Yet he couldn’t lie, couldn’t brush his failings away, and despite that, anyway, Greg wanted him even so. 

Greg’s hands found his hips, and he held them, thrusting up into him. “Yes, love,” Greg whispered, and Mycroft shuddered, feeling the heat in his words, passion, and even awe, perhaps. His hand curled around Mycroft’s cock, and it didn’t take much more, he couldn’t take much more, just Greg’s words, “yes, just let go,” and he was finished, coming on his chest, thighs shaking, toes curling as Greg came inside him. 

Panting, he was brought down to lie with Greg, cradled against him as they got their breath back. With a content sigh, Mycroft rolled onto his back beside him, smiling at Greg’s flushed cheeks, and unending smile. 

“You should come home early more often,” Greg said with a grin, shuffling down Mycroft’s body and drawing his oversensitive nipple between his lips.

Mycroft gasped, and held Greg’s head in place. “You can’t possibly be ready for a second round already.”

“I’m not,” Greg laughed “But God, you’re gorgeous.” They kissed again, and Mycroft rolled them over so he was back on top. 

“You’re simply-” Mycroft began, and winced at the first ring from his phone. “Oh for goodness sake,” he muttered, leaning over so he could pick it up.

Greg laughed and pinned him down on his front, kissing down his spine. Mycroft shuddered as Greg reached his backside, tongue flicking out. “Greg, I’m on the phone,” Mycroft said, trying to sound exasperated as he dropped the phone, hips aching up to Greg’s mouth on their own accord.

“Not yet you’re not,” Greg replied, a little smug as he flicked his tongue against him.

Mycroft finally held his phone out in front of him. “It’s John. Probably sending his apologies for Sherlock’s earlier behaviour.”

Greg sat up, stroking his hand against Mycroft’s arse. “Go on. Might be important.”

“Mm. I doubt it. Hello, John. I do hope this is important. It really isn’t a good-”

“-Mycroft, Sherlock’s been shot in the chest, he’s on his way to hospital.”

Mycroft sat up, heart clenching. “Where?” 

“Royal London Hospital. His heart... it stopped once and it... He was shot in the chest. Are you coming?”

“Yes, I’ll be there immediately. Is he in surgery?”

“Yeah. I don’t know if he’ll… I’ll see you soon then?”

“Yes, John. We’ll see you shortly.” He hung up, frowning as he lowered his phone. “Sherlock’s been shot in the chest,” he recited. “He’s in surgery now. His heart has already stopped once.”

Mycroft blinked. Sherlock, shot in the chest. He stared at the wall. Sherlock. In the chest? The world seemed to fold in on itself. He had reacted too late. Of course someone would go after Sherlock. Everything, everything he had done was to look after Sherlock, and he’d gone off the boil, he’d lost focus, he’d been too busy thinking about who was going to kill him, he didn’t think about… Sherlock. Shot in the chest? Was that what John had said?

Mycroft looked down at his bare chest and lifted his hand to his sternum. “Kamik Toor was shot in the chest,” Mycroft murmured, looking down at himself, half aware of Greg easing his arms into a shirt. “Died from the blood loss. John didn’t say where Sherlock was hit. The range of the weapon, the type of gun, the location on his chest, how deep it went… why does no one ever register this information but Sherlock and I? It is absolutely critical.”

Greg said something, but Mycroft couldn’t focus on his words. Sherlock was going to die. His brother was going to die. Oh, Sherlock, I’m sorry… 

“We live 43 minutes away, without traffic,” Mycroft murmured. Sherlock would die before they arrived… Sherlock. Really dead? And there was nothing Mycroft could do... “We might not even make it on time.”

He felt warm lips against his, a desperate, solid kiss. “I need you to stand up, get dressed and get in the car,” Greg demanded. “Do those three things for me and then you can break down, you got it?”

Mycroft swallowed and reached out. “Yes. Yes, very well.” He managed to wrap a tie around his neck, and tied it with shaking hands. Sherlock… 

He let himself be led down the stairs, and he wrapped a hand around Greg’s bicep to support himself. He slid into the chair and dabbed his face with his pocket handkerchief, checked the time on his pocketwatch and closed his eyes. Breathe. He had to breathe. And hope Sherlock was doing the same.

He felt Greg take his hand in his. And he prepared himself for the longest journey of his life.


	76. Weaponary

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry if there are some mistakes in this, I've spent the past 12 hours (less, honestly, because of cooking dinner) working on this so I could get it out today. 
> 
> This SHOULD be finished ahead of tomorrow's Sherlock, all going well. 
> 
> I'll come back and correct this if needed, once I've had a couple of days away!

**September 2014.**

**Location: Royal London Hospital, London.**

He was so cold. Like ice had been injected into his veins. He hardly noticed as they parked. He put one foot in front of the other, but didn’t feel the solid ground beneath him. It was Greg’s strength which guided him to the waiting room, Greg’s hand against his back, solid, leading him, keeping him upright.

John was sat there already, head in hands. But as he looked up, although concern was etched into his features, nothing suggested he was mourning the loss of his best friend. Yet. 

“Who was it?” Greg asked. “Do you know?”

“Not a clue,” John replied. “We were at… We were at Magnussen’s office.”

The mention of Magnussen dragged Mycroft from his reverie. “Oh for goodness sake! Why does everyone else always think they know better than I do?”

“Magnussen?” Greg asked. “Magnussen? As in… y’know. Newspaper Magnussen?” He turned to Mycroft. “Did you… did we…?”

“Sherlock went off on his own,” Mycroft muttered. “Deciding to take him down single-handedly.” 

“He said he has information on Lady Smallwood,” John said. “He wanted to steal it from his office while he was out at dinner.”

Oh for the love of… “Lady Smallwood?” 

“Yeah.”

Mycroft clenched his fists. “I need to make a phone call.” He turned to Greg. Ignoring John’s presence, he kissed his cheek, seeking a comfort from him he couldn’t entirely take. “And find a doctor to get some updates on Sherlock’s condition.”

“I’ll be right here,” Greg said, giving his hand a quick squeeze. 

Mycroft stepped out of the waiting room. He looked at his phone, then put it away. Demanding information from Lady Smallwood was no good to him now. It was doubtful she knew anything. He found a water dispenser, downed two cold cupfuls, then went to find a doctor. 

“Sir,” a woman called. “You can’t go down there.”

Mycroft spun around. “My brother. Sherlock Holmes. Do you know who is treating him?”

“He’s in surgery,” the consultant said, walking towards him. “Do you know what happened?”

“No. No, only that he was shot.”

“The police will want to speak to anyone with information.”

“I don’t have any,” Mycroft replied. “His condition…”

“It’s early days. Surgery will take a few more hours. It missed his heart.”

“It missed his heart,” Mycroft repeated, rubbing his forehead. 

“His heart stopped on the table, but he came back. There’s not as much blood loss as we expected, but he has massive internal bleeding. We won’t know the outcome of surgery for some time.”

“Right,” Mycroft whispered. “Right, of course. It takes… it takes time.”

“We have a waiting room.”

“Yes, I found it. Thank you. For your… honesty.” Frowning he took a few steps back from her, before spinning around and heading back to the waiting room.

“Any news?” Greg asked.  

“Surgery could take a few more hours at least.” He sat down beside Greg, taking hold of his hand. He brushed his thumb against his knuckles, trying to wrestle back some self-control. “I can’t sit here and wait, I have to do something.”

“What can you do?” Greg asked.

“Find out who did this. There will be CCTV and everything else, I’m sure.” 

Greg turned to him, holding his eyes. “Do what you have to do, okay?”

“I can’t sit here.”

“I know.” Greg squeezed his hand. “I’ll be here for as long as I can. You call me if you need anything.”

Mycroft leaned over the chairs’ arms, pressing a gentle kiss to Greg’s lips. “Any updates…”

“You’ll be the first to know,” Greg promised. “Stay in touch.”

Mycroft went to the door, phone in hand. He looked back at them both, settling in for a night of waiting and discomfort, and knew there was nothing to be achieved by being stuck in limbo. 

Back at the Coeur de Lion office, alone, but for a few members of the night staff, he made himself a coffee, Irish, stiffened by only the best whiskey. He began retracing his steps through all he knew of Moran and Moriarty and Lord Moran and every thread he could unpick. He lived in the beating heart of a tapestry of lies and deceit… and somewhere, somewhere, the fabric was unravelling. He only had to find the cause. And eliminate it. 

He thought of Sherlock as little as possible, tried not to imagine him lying on an operating theatre, ribs spread open, organs exposed to the sterilised air. He had to shake himself, take a deep breath and focus on CCTV images and Mads’ maps. He tried not to picture the doctors interrogating John and Greg for Sherlock’s medical history, Greg admitting the full repertoire of drugs he had taken during his short life. 

The police had probably descended on the hospital by now, trying to work out how a man was lying on an operating theatre with a bullet wound. Not just any man, a celebrity of sorts, an alleged murderer once, Sherlock Holmes. All very suspicious, wasn’t it?

Hours passed, and he worked until everything blurred. He tried to sleep, but resting with his head on his desk would never provide comfort for long. 

John text, eventually, to say Sherlock had come out of surgery, and again, much later, to say he had woken up. Anthea came and went, bringing him cups of tea and coffee. She tried to get him to drink something decaffeinated, but he refused, too busy, too focused, too much to do. 

Greg arrived, eventually, some 20 or so hours after their drive to the hospital. He took Mycroft’s arm and steered him out and home, and gave him some food. 

Then it was back to work, to trying to trace Moran in Eastern Europe. Sherlock’s shooting was front page of the next day’s papers. ‘Suspicious shooting of super sleuth Sherlock’, one wrote. Mycroft had to admire the alliteration, because he could admire little else. 

He met with Lady Smallwood at her office, where she was shredding papers. “It’s nothing to concern you,” she told him as another wad of papers went through the machine. “Just housekeeping.”

“You should have come to me,” Mycroft murmured as he took a seat at her desk. “When Magnussen threatened you, you should have…”

“Should I have, Mycroft?” she snapped. “You’d have used it against me too, one day. Just another piece of information for you to file away for a rainy day.”

“I was under the impression we trusted one another.”

“To an extent,” she agreed. “But not to a great extent. I’m fully aware you got me my job, but you did so for your own benefit, not out of the goodness of your heart. I didn’t trust you with this.”

“What did he threaten you with?”

“It’s none of your business now.”

“On the contrary. My brother is in hospital with a bullet wound, all because he went after Magnussen. It is my business more than it is anyone else’s business. Let’s not forget, I can make your life very difficult.”

Lady Smallwood sunk into a chair. “My husband… he wrote some letters to a girl. He didn’t know she was underage.”

Mycroft bit his lip. “I could have helped you.”

“Well, I didn’t go to you. So it’s too late now. How is Sherlock?”

“Unconscious. Better than the doctors expected.”

“For what it’s worth, I’m sorry.”

“Thank you.” They regarded each other for a moment. “The Magnussen problem hasn’t gone away,” Mycroft pointed out. “If anything, Sherlock may have exacerbated it.” 

“Then I’m sure you’ll think of something,” Lady Smallwood said. “After all. You believe I should have come to you. Show me what you would have done differently.” 

* * *

On the fourth day following the shooting, Mycroft made an effort to get home at a normal hour. There had been no more information, no leads, no sign of Moran. He found Greg stretched out across the settee, crime reports spread out on the floor, glasses perched on his nose as he typed on his laptop. He jumped as Mycroft closed the door. “Christ,” he exclaimed, checking his watch. “Huh.”

“I know I’ve not been here a lot…”

Greg reached a hand out to him, which Mycroft took. “It’s fine, just surprised to see you so early. It’s all good. Hungry?”

“I’ll cook,” Mycroft told him. “You don’t need to go to any trouble.”

“There’s already leftovers from yesterday. Homemade curry. Let me get it.” Greg closed his laptop and walked round to where Mycroft stood. He pressed a kiss to his cheek and then his lips. “I’m glad you’re home.” Greg studied him. “You need a relaxing night.”

“I'm having one.”

“You look like you haven’t slept in days. Even your shirt’s creased.” He took Mycroft’s hand and led him to the kitchen, pulling the chair out for him. “You need to sit. And eat.”

Mycroft shot him a grateful smile. “Thank you.”

“No problem. Just glad you’re home. Have you seen Sherlock?”

“Yes. He was asleep. But the nurses informed me has woken a few times… even spoken to John.”

“Yeah, he’s made amazing progress. He’s never awake to talk to the police, or to me, but he’s probably avoiding both.”

Mycroft frowned. “Why would he avoid you?”

“Because he knows I want answers.” Greg chatted about his work and recent cases as they ate their curry, but soon Mycroft’s eyes began to close. 

“Sorry,” he murmured, rubbing his eyes. “I’m exhausted.”

“Go to bed.”

“I’m not sure I can sleep. Everything is so jumbled up… I feel…” He sighed. “At a loss.”

“Go to bed, get naked. I’ll find a way to relax you.”

“Greg… I don’t think…”

Greg rolled his eyes. “Not like that. I know you’re not awake enough for sex. For once, just do as I say, yeah?”

Mycroft sighed and touched Greg’s cheek. “I do listen to you.”

“Good.” Greg smiled at him. “Bed. If your arse isn’t there in five minutes, I’ll put extra chillies in this curry next time.”

“I actually think you’d make good on that threat…”

“You better believe it.” Greg checked his watch. “Time’s a-ticking…”

Mycroft headed to their bedroom. He closed the curtains, blocking out the majority of the fading light. He left a lamp on as he undressed, hanging some items, putting others away to be washed. He left his underwear on as he climbed onto the bed, but, remembering Greg’s request for him to be nude, stripped out of the final garment.

Weary, he lay down on his side, pulling the soft, faux fur throw over himself. 

“Close your eyes,” Greg whispered as he walked in. Mycroft listened as Greg moved around the bedroom, and then as the first sweet chords of music started playing. 

“I don’t know this album,” Mycroft murmured, listening as the first lyrics were sung by a deep, gravelly voice. _Trouble… Trouble been doggin' my soul since the day I was born._

“Ray LaMontagne. From a few years ago now. It’s nice.” Greg turned off the lamp, and Mycroft opened his eyes, looking round at the candles. “How’s this for a start?”

“Helping,” Mycroft admitted, closing his eyes again. 

“Roll onto your front. Let me see if I can’t get some of that tension out.” Greg pulled the throw off and straddled Mycroft’s hips. Moments later, hands damp with a honey-orange oil, Greg’s fingertips pressed into Mycroft’s shoulders. 

“I think…” Mycroft started.

Greg’s voice came close to his ear, soft and soothing. “No. No thinking. Switch off for me. Listen to the music, and focus on my hands and nothing else.”

“You’re good to me.”

“Shh.” Greg’s hands drifted down his back, and Mycroft did as he was told, consciously letting go of the tension in his shoulders, then his back and his arms, soothed by where Greg’s hands travelled. Greg’s hands moved down his buttocks, erotic and sensual, but undemanding, and then down his thighs, his calves, and to his feet. Mycroft let out a soft sound as Greg’s thumbs worked into his arches, releasing days, perhaps weeks and months, of tension. 

He found himself in a haze, drowning in the scent of the oils, the familiar, welcoming smell of Greg’s aftershave on the pillows, his body solid alongside Mycroft’s, hands and fingers working into tired, aching muscles, soothing him, saving him from his own thoughts…

He woke under the throw, perhaps hours later, Greg snoring beside him beneath the covers. Mycroft lay boneless, before sliding under the covers with him, shuffling closer, and touching his nose to the back of his partner’s neck. He breathed him in, smiled, kissed his skin, and went back to sleep. 

* * *

By the time Sherlock was awake, he went missing, likely hiding in some bolt-hole for some unbeknown reason. Mycroft left Greg and John and Molly to do the searching. There were pressing matters emerging in Eastern Europe, some manoeuvring in Moriarty’s former strongholds, for Mycroft to deal with.

He was deep in his work when his phone chimed. 

 

MESSAGES Sherlock Holmes  
11.56pm: Mary shot me. SH

 

MESSAGES Sherlock Holmes  
11.57: Pick her up from John’s.  
Bring her to hospital. SH

 

Mycroft stared at the messages, but not for long. He swept from his desk, collected his belongings and ran out into the street. Max drove him to the Watsons’ home. He found her on the steps outside, back to the door, legs pulled up to her chest. She stared at him with red-rimmed eyes and Mycroft could only look back. Wordless, she pulled herself to her feet, wrapping her coat more tightly around herself. 

“Mrs Watson,” he murmured, raising his eyebrows.

“Mycroft.”

“You and I need to have words. Follow me.” He led her to the car, and held the door open to her. 

Her eyes were blank and empty as they drove, as though she was unseeing, a statue. But beneath that, there was a quivering bottom lip, teeth clenched. 

“I don’t want to alarm you,” Mycroft lied. “But Sherlock hasn’t told me anything yet.”

“What did he tell you?” she managed to say. She lifted one hand to wipe her face, but she tried to make it look as though she was scratching her cheek. 

“That you shot him.”

“Oh.”

Mycroft shot her a look. “I’ve been interested in you for some time. And believe me when I tell you, if I don’t hear the full story tonight… Well, I would hate to see something terrible become of you.” The car stopped. “Do follow me.” 

He walked around the car to open the door for her. She followed him into the hospital, up to Sherlock’s room. A medic tried to protest that Sherlock wasn’t up to visitors, but a quick murmur of ‘he’s my brother’ from Mycroft, followed by a scathing look, and they were in Sherlock’s room. He closed the door behind them, Mary moving to the corner, looking out of the window. 

Sherlock was lying on his back on the bed, staring up at the ceiling, hands in a steeple beneath his chin. “Did you know having your heart restarted caused so many headaches?” he asked, turning his head in Mycroft’s direction. “I’ve been lying here for a little under an hour now, and I can’t feel a lot, thank you, morphine, but my head hurts like nothing else.” He lifted his chin. “Oh, hello, Mary.” He waved his fingers. “Glad you could all be here.”

“I’m afraid someone is going to have to fill me in,” Mycroft said, taking a seat at Sherlock’s bedside. “I believe we have all been keeping some critical information from one another.”

“Mary’s an assassin, Mary shot me, not to kill me, just to incapacitate me. Surgery, I’d call it.” Sherlock looked at Mary again. “That sums it up, right?”

“Why?” Mycroft asked. 

“Because Magnussen knows about her past.”

Mycroft rubbed his forehead. “Of course he does. Because Sebastian Moran does too, and he probably passed it onto Magnussen. The question is, is Moran’s interest in Mary recent or does it date back five years?”

Sherlock shrugged. “That’s more your domain, I’m only interested in Magnussen.”

“I need to know who she is, Sherlock.”

“I invited you here as a courtesy. I thought you’d figure it out eventually, though for goodness sake, Mycroft, you’re slow these days. I thought you were investigating her a year ago, how has it taken this long?”

“I’m busy.”

“Well, go on then, tell me who she is.”

“I don’t know,” Mycroft admitted.

“Are you finished talking about me as though I’m not here?” Mary cut in. “Because if you want answers, then surely I’m the one with them?”

Mycroft shot her a look. “I don’t trust you.”

“I do,” Sherlock said.

Mycroft turned to his brother, already exasperated. “She shot you.”

“Old news. Let’s move onto the next thing. How do I extract the information from Magnussen?”

“You don’t.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Here we go again… the man needs to go, Mycroft. He preys on the weak and…” 

“Magnussen is in my jurisdiction. I’ve told you to back off…”

Mary coughed. “Boys. As entertaining as this is, you’re going round in circles. Do you want the missing pieces filled in, or shall I stand here and read a magazine?”

Mycroft sighed. “Do go on.”

Mary folded her arms across her chest. “Do you want me to start somewhere particular or…?” She sighed. “Fine. I worked for the secret services, yes. Unofficially. Off the record.”

Mycroft regarded her. “You were a killer for hire.”

“Yes.”

“But not for the British.”

“No, not for the British.”

“Who did you kill?”

“Who I killed is irrelevant. I killed who they told me to kill. I did things… I did things their hired staff wouldn’t have wanted to do. Took lives they wouldn’t have wanted to take.”

“Then what happened?” Mycroft asked. 

“I quit. Tried to. But when they’ve got you…” 

“They don’t let you go,” Mycroft finished for her. “Not when you’ve got secrets of the sort you have.” He knew all about that.

“I met a man who promised to change my identity, if I did some jobs for him first.”

“What man?”

Mary swallowed. “I later found out his name was James Moriarty. He told me something different when I met him. He said he had friends in high places, that he could… save my life by changing my identity, but he needed me first. He needed someone with my skills.”

Mycroft tried to stay visibly composed, but he curled his hand around the chair arm. “For how long did you work for him?”

“Not for long. I carried out a few jobs. Most of them in Eastern Europe. I suppose he wanted to see if I would carry out orders. They were low-level people in some of the organised crime gangs. Still, they were worse people than the ones the Governments used to have me kill. It was a relief. To kill people who felt… not deserving, I’m not saying they were deserving, but… at least they were in the wrong.”

“Don’t worry, Mary,” Sherlock said. “Mycroft knows all about having people killed.”

Mycroft ignored him. “Were you good at what you did?”

“Yes.”

“Did you only kill in Eastern Europe?”

“Yeah. All but one. I killed a woman in Britain in 2005.”

“Who?”

“She was a member of the Russian secret services. Blonde woman.”

“Who was she?”

“Her surname was Garzone.”

“Tatiana Garzone,” Mycroft muttered.

“Yeah.”

Mycroft sat back in his chair. “How did you leave Moriarty? Surely he didn’t let you just… go?”

“He promised to change my identity. In 2009, I told him I needed a new life and he… granted it. Within days, I had a new passport, a new name, new everything. He left me alone. He had others he preferred, he only used me for jobs on rare occasions, and nothing big. I think he knew I didn’t have the stomach for it like some of his others did.”

“Like Sebastian Moran did.”

She winced. “That man… I’ve never felt so uncomfortable in a room as I was when I was in a room with him. He stares at you like… like you’re the Devil, or worse, you’re God, come to give him a telling off.”

“You left Moriarty, and Eastern Europe, and came to London where you met John Watson. Do you mean to tell me that was a coincidence?”

She held Mycroft’s eyes. “It was. I trained as a nurse, and his surgery had the first vacancy… I started working there before Sherlock died. It was John who moved surgery, to where I work now. I didn’t track him down. And we fell in love.” Her face fell and she bit her lip. 

Mycroft glanced at Sherlock to corroborate, which he did with a quick nod. “How did you find out Magnussen knew about you?”

“He sent a card to the wedding. When I left Moriarty… Moran grabbed me and pushed me into a room. He had me against the wall and he told me they would always know where I was. That they would never let me go. That if I ever… if I ever got close to the secret services or the Government, they would tear me down. I fell in love with John, that’s all I did. But Sherlock wasn’t dead after all and…”

“And you’re close to the Government now,” Sherlock murmured. “By default. Because of me, because my brother is Mycroft.”

“Moran doesn’t trust or believe anyone,” she continued. “And he’ll take people down, just for fun. He’s not smart like Moriarty, but he knows people who are clever enough to create a plan. If he has someone on-side… I need you to help me.”

“Why would I?” Mycroft asked, standing up. “You shot my brother. You can both call it ‘surgery’, but it’s semantics. He almost died, numerous times. He may forgive you, but you will get no such treatment from me.”

“Shut up, Mycroft.” Sherlock said. “Mary, leave us a minute?”

Mycroft watched as she slipped from the room. “She could have killed you,” he said as the door closed.

Sherlock shrugged. “She didn’t. I believe her. Do you?”

“No. She’s a trained liar, perhaps the very best of liars. She had you fooled.”

“I trust her, Mycroft.”

Mycroft’s patience finally snapped. “For goodness sake, Sherlock. She shot you. You’re in hospital. Again. Because of her. She might be working with Moran, or Magnussen, or she may never have met Moran and she’s lying about that too. She should be in jail.”

“I wouldn’t testify against her. She’s under my protection, the same way Magnussen is apparently under yours. I trust her. I believe her. She’s taken some wrong turns, shot some people, but she’s smart. Please. Mycroft. Leave her alone.”

Mycroft stared down at him. “I don’t know when you last said ‘please’ for me to do anything for you.”

“Then I’m asking you now.”

“I’m watching her.”

“I’d expect nothing less.”

“And Magnussen?” Mycroft asked.

“I need to get the information from him.”

“Then leave it to me.”

“Fine,” Sherlock said.

Surprised, Mycroft narrowed his eyes. “Very well. Do be careful, Sherlock.” Mycroft left him, stepping out into the lobby. He found Mary leaning against a wall, wiping her eyes. “Mrs Watson,” he said with a nod of his head. 

* * *

Two days later, while still in hospital, Sherlock met with Charles Magnussen. Though Mycroft did not know what was said, he knew his brother was not letting the issue go after all.

* * *

**October 2014.**

**Location: Dulwich & Sydenham Hill Golf Club, Dulwich, London.**

There were few odder events than being a guest at Greg’s ex-wife’s wedding. Mycroft had been reluctant to go, certain, despite the invitation, that Jane Starnes would not really want him there. But Greg had insisted. “You can’t make me go alone to another ex-wife’s wedding. I’ve already done that once, and it’s depressing.”

So, that was the matter closed. Mycroft would go along and watch the bride from afar, and would sign the card, and try to stamp out the silly feelings he had towards her. He didn’t dislike her, not really, although she had hurt Greg in the past. But a little bit of him resented her for the years she spent with Greg while Mycroft could only watch. It wasn’t her fault, Mycroft knew, and she had helped Greg so much in those years. Still. He wasn’t sure he was Jane Starnes’ biggest fan. 

But they sat through the late-afternoon ceremony, a brief thing with few vows, and then tolerated the buffet and evening do. Mycroft thought they would make a quiet escape, but then, he did not reckon on Jane Starnes.

She pointed to Greg from across the room, and made her way over, effortless on towering heels. She hugged Greg, greeting him as an old friend, not as a husband from an acrimonious marriage. 

Jane held her hand out to Mycroft. “Jane,” she said.

Mycroft shook her hand. “Mycroft Holmes."

“Lovely to meet you at long last. Greg, would you be a darling and allow me a few minutes with your boyfriend on the dance floor?”

Greg shrugged. “Fine with me,” he said.

Jane tightened her hold on Mycroft’s hand, leading him out to the floor. She rested her hand on his shoulder and waist. “He looks well,” she said as Mycroft positioned his own hands.

“I think so too.”

“You look lovely together.”

“As do you and your husband.”

“Yeah, I got a good one,” she said with a smile. “A really good one this time.”

“You got a good one last time,” Mycroft pointed out. 

“I did,” she agreed. “But then he was never really mine, was he?” Mycroft frowned and found he suddenly couldn’t meet her eyes. “Look at me,” she said. “I don’t blame you.”

“For what?” he asked, looking back at her. 

“For him being in love with you all that time. You were clearly meant to be, and we weren’t. And that is just fine.” She laughed. “I hated you for a while, don’t get me wrong. Then I figured you couldn’t be so bad, if a man as good as Greg loved you, so… I dealt with it and moved on.”

“I…” Mycroft blinked. “Thank you.”

“So when are you putting a ring on it?”

Mycroft spluttered. “Sorry?”

“Greg. Ring. Finger. Wedding. No?”

“No.”

She sighed. “I’m disappointed, I’m sure you’d have a wonderful wedding. I wanted to buy a hat and everything.” She hummed. “I understand. You’re not the marrying type. Still. I love having a ring on my finger. I like everyone knowing I’m loved, and wanted and that I have someone to go home to. But I never had a home before really, not one I felt loved in, so a ring was important to me and… sorry. Babbling. I do that. Bad habit. What do you like to dance to?”

“Dance?”

“You and Greg?”

“Jeff Buckley.”

“Hallelujah?” He nodded. “Consider it done. Thank you for my dance, Mycroft Holmes.”

He kissed her hand. “It was all my pleasure.” 

He took Greg in his arms as their song came on, and he thought about Jane’s words, and ran his thumb over the ring on his own hand, the one his grandfather used to wear. Somewhere, she had seen something he had missed. Greg’s desire to get married wasn’t about a wedding, nor a piece of paper. It was about commitment, solid, trusted, endless commitment. Not a commitment made in public, but something between them, signified in one of the strongest metals on earth. One they could each wear around their fingers.

He thought it over as they moved to the music, and he found it in himself to let go of all his concerns, and he lost himself in the music and in Greg.

* * *

Anthea burst into his office in the middle of the afternoon a few weeks later, out of breath. “He’s talked.”

“Who?” Mycroft asked. 

“Lord Moran. I was at MI5 speaking to Nadia Swift, and she got a phone call saying Lord Moran’s talked and said he wants to speak to her.”

Mycroft stood up. “He wants to speak to Nadia?”

“He didn’t name her specifically. He said he will talk only to the head of MI5. They’ve been quizzing him for months, and he’s been silent. But today he opened his mouth and said, ‘I will speak, but only to the head of MI5’. Nadia is on her way over now. Do you want to go too?”

“Yes.” Mycroft grabbed his coat. “Yes, I do.” They rushed to the car. “Why now?” Mycroft asked. “I don’t understand what’s changed… Why Nadia?”

Anthea shrugged. “He’s a Government-type. Government-types like talking to people with power. Nadia is certainly that.”

“Finally, some action, at least. It’s better than nothing.”

He and Anthea watched a TV screen as Lord Moran sat at an interrogation table, tapping his fingers against it. 

“He looks like he’s walked in from a holiday,” Mycroft muttered. “Look at him. His hair’s still long and clean, he looks serene… no additional lines on his face. You wouldn’t know he was in any trouble at all, if it weren’t for the overalls and the cuffs…”

They watched as Nadia entered the room, just as poised and calm as Lord Moran seemed. She took a seat, tilting her head at him. “Someone told me you wanted to speak to me. Does this mean you’re ready to answer some questions?”

“I only wanted to talk to someone,” Lord Moran replied. “I got terribly bored, listening to the guards all the time. There’s only so much police gossip a man can stand before he starts going out of his mind. And it’s been so long since I had someone intelligent to speak to, I thought you might fit the bill.”

Nadia crossed her arms. “I’m not going to sit here for a conversation. I want to talk about the bomb.”

“What’s your name?”

“Nadia Swift. I’m head of MI5.”

Lord Moran smiled. “It must be marvellous to have access to that much information on national security.”

“Where were you on November 5, 2013?”

“I used to have access to national security information, myself,” Lord Moran continued. “Not a lot, a few little odds and ends, pieces picked up from various MPs and foreign diplomats, all very boring for the most part.”

“What were you doing on November 5, 2013?”

“I saw a piece in the newspaper yesterday… about an aeroplane crash over the Pacific. Very sad.”

“Who gave you access to a newspaper?” Nadia asked.

Lord Moran continued to ignore her. “All those people, dead in the air. It reminded me, of a very specific story I heard a few years ago. About the British security services filling an aeroplane with dead bodies. And they organised it so the terrorists would think the ‘plane exploded as planned, and yet nobody died. A truly spectacular plan. Genius, some would say. It had a funny name… a pop culture reference. Something… like Bond Air.”

Mycroft felt the words like a knife to the gut. 

“Who told you that?” Nadia asked.

“It was in a conversation with someone… a newspaper proprietor. What’s his name? It’ll come to me…” Lord Moran tapped the table. “Yes, I was at a gathering and trying to pretend to this newspaper man that I knew more than I did, quite frankly. Anyway, he clearly knew more about everything than I did, and he asked if I knew about Bond Air, and I said no. And he proceeded to weave this masterful tale about dead passengers in an aeroplane… Magnussen! Yes, that’s the man. He must be like you, Nadia. I dread to think how many national security secrets must be stored in his home. I mean, a man like that, wouldn’t keep it in the office, would he?” 

“I want to know about the bomb.”

Lord Moran sighed, and sat back in his chair. Over the next two hours, he did not say another word. Just sat, relaxed, as though he was lazing around at the beach. He was taken back to the cells.

Mycroft rewound the tape and watched the conversation again. “Magnussen has information on me…” he muttered. “We can work with this. We can have a mission authorised to take his documents from him.” He turned to Anthea. “Have Nadia authorise this right away. We will take Magnussen out.” 

* * *

**November 2014.**

**Location: A boat on the Thames, London.**

Swept up in making plans for Magnussen, Mycroft knew he hadn’t given Greg the time he and their relationship deserved. Greg took it with good grace as always, saying he knew what he had signed up for. But Mycroft, always keen to surpass his expectations, paid for a private river cruise at night for his birthday. Wrapped up in coats, and leaning against one another on the chairs, they drank in the cold air, gloved hands holding onto champagne flutes.

“It’s beautiful,” Greg said, finishing his drink. “Best city on earth.”

Mycroft topped up his glass and looked up at the sky. “It’s a shame it’s so cloudy.”

“London’s lights are as good as the stars are anyway. Look at the bridge there, that’s amazing.”

“Do you miss living in the centre of London?”

“No, not really,” Greg said with a grin. “I like getting home to the peace and quiet. Why? Do you?”

“No, not one bit. There’s far less traffic to get the shops.”

“And I’m not worried about the cats getting outside and getting run over either. I love our house. We should have a party or something. A dinner party.” 

“A dinner party.”

“Yeah. Have Sally and Sam over, and Molly and Mrs Hudson, and John, Mary, Sherlock. The whole gang.”

Mycroft frowned. “I was under the impression Sherlock and Sally hated one another.”

“I think they tolerate each other now. I reckon they can be in the same room for a few hours without clawing each other’s eyes out. Or we can just have Sally and Sam, Anthea and Arnou? I reckon they’d get on okay? What about that kid at your office too?”

“Mads?”

“Yeah, he’s seemed a pretty good bloke, last few times I popped round. He made me a fruit smoothie.”

“Yes, he’s on a health kick… he’s trying to cut down on coffee.”

Greg nudged him. “Sounds like something you should do too.”

“The smoothies aren’t bad, I’ll admit. Sally, Sam, Arnou and Anthea and Mads… I suppose it wouldn’t go too badly. Sam and Arnou have art in common, and Sally can talk to anyone. Anthea knows her way around conversation, and Mads is eager to join in with anything. You have a few other work friends, don’t you?”

“Yeah, Piper’s a laugh, and I think you’d like Leon as well. He can hold a decent enough conversation.”

“That’s nine.” Mycroft winced. “We can’t have an odd number at a dinner party.”

“Mads is single?” Greg asked. 

“Yes… we can’t fix him up with someone, that’s not fair.”

“Damn, I was going to suggest inviting Molly over too.”

“I suppose Mads is intelligent, that’s certainly her type…” Mycroft groaned. “No, no. I will not allow us to become one of those couples who set up their friends. No, I will simply select someone else from my office. Jolana can come, you’ll like her, she can load a weapon in seconds flat and play a piano.” 

Greg snorted. “You sure do pick your friends, Mycroft.”

“Employees.”

“And friends.”

Mycroft held his eyes and finally conceded the point. “I suppose a dinner party invitation does suggest they’re more than simply employees… Some time in the new year, then. It’ll give them time to get it in their diaries. You and I will do the cooking, and you can organise the music. I’ve never…” Mycroft frowned. “I usually leave parties to everyone else. Anthea organised my birthday party a few years ago, and I’ve never hosted a dinner party.”

“Me neither.” Greg squeezed his knee. “Hey. Maybe we’re old now?”

“Possibly. Perhaps we’re growing old together, then?”

“Maybe. Sounds like something I want to do.”

Mycroft leaned over and kissed him. “It sounds like something I’d like to do too.”

“And what else would you like to do?”

“With our lives?”

“Yeah.”

Mycroft looked back at the water. “I hadn’t thought beyond Christmas, honestly. And now our dinner party. Why? What would you like to do?”

“I… I wasn’t thinking of anything, really. Nothing in my head. I was just making conversation.”

Mycroft turned to him. “Do you think we should be doing something else?”

“No, we’re good.”

Mycroft finished his drink and huddled closer. “Good,” he said, looking around at the city. He frowned to himself, and pushed a niggling voice away as quickly as it started.

* * *

**December 2014.**

**Location: The Holmes’ Cottage, Gloucestershire.**

He had become more tolerant of Christmas in recent years, though he couldn’t proclaim to love it. He enjoyed it even less when Greg was not there, while Mycroft was forced to witness the continuing Watson feud, put up with Sherlock’s new hired friend Wiggins, and his parents’ dithering over whether ham or beef would make the best supper that evening - before Christmas dinner was even out of the way, for goodness sake.

More than a little part of Mycroft wondered if they would even make it to Christmas dinner this year. Sherlock had added something horrific to the punch (Mycroft knew it was suspicious for Sherlock to volunteer to do anything, let alone stand and stir the punch, and he’d kept a surreptitious eye on him and Wiggins while they were up to no good). And he himself had plans at Magnussen’s residence that evening. And following the punch incident, he had an inkling Sherlock did too. 

Of course, Sherlock pretended he had let it go. But Mycroft kept too good an eye on him to believe that. The visits to Magnussen’s offices, lurking outside, watching. The sudden interest in his newspapers, with subscriptions addressed to 221B Baker Street. And like Mycroft, Sherlock would undoubtedly have learned Magnussen always spent Christmas at Appledore… Which happened to be in the Cotswolds. In Gloucestershire. It would take less than an hour to travel there. 

But, there was a plan in place, and Sherlock could surely be a help in that. Sherlock wanted information from Magnussen (it had been too late for poor Lady Smallwood’s husband, but Mycroft wasn’t a miracle worker). And Sherlock was surely going to offer him a trade. Mycroft had purposely left a laptop on the kitchen table, which potatoes were now scattered over.

Mycroft watched his family drink the punch, and pretended to do so himself. He followed Sherlock outside. “What are you doing?” he asked as he closed the door.

“Escaping. Cigarette?”

“Yes, fine.” Mycroft took one from him, and let him light it. 

Sherlock groaned and rolled his shoulders. “I can’t wait for this day to be over.”

“Yes, it’s a real bore. What would you be doing instead?”

“Being bothered by Mrs Hudson, probably. You?”

“Working. Speaking of work… I’m glad you’ve given up on the Magnussen business.”

“Are you?”

“I’m still curious, though. He’s hardly your usual kind of puzzle. Why do you hate him?”

Sherlock turned to him. “Because he attacks people who are different and preys on their secrets. Why don’t you?”

“He never causes too much damage to anyone important. He’s far too intelligent for that. He’s a business-man, that’s all, and occasionally useful to us. A necessary evil, not a dragon for you to slay.” 

He wandered back to the door, more than certain that Sherlock would indeed be going after Magnussen. It was as inevitable as fireworks on New Year’s Eve.

A thought came to mind, of Moriarty’s former European gangs. “I have, by the way, a job offer I should like you to decline,” Mycroft told him. “MI6 want to place you back into Eastern Europe. An undercover assignment that would prove fatal to you in, I think, about six months.”

“Then why don’t you want me to take it?”

“It’s tempting…” Mycroft almost smiled. “But on balance you have more utility closer to home.” He turned back to the house and swallowed. “Also, your loss would break my heart.” 

Sherlock spluttered. “What the hell am I supposed to say to that?!” 

“Merry Christmas?”

“You hate Christmas.”

Mycroft frowned. “Yes. Perhaps there was something in the punch,” he said pointedly. 

“Clearly. Go and have some more.”

Mycroft’s smile fell as he turned back to the door and stalked to the living room. His warning had not been heeded, if it had been heard at all. He watched as his mother fell asleep, and he lay his head down on the table himself as he heard Sherlock’s footsteps. He could hear the propeller of the helicopter outside, as Sherlock took the laptop from under his hand. Mycroft waited until the sound vanished, and he sat up. Predictable, little brother, he thought. As ever. 

He had to wait a while. The mission had been scheduled for 7pm, but with Sherlock’s theatrics, he had to call MI5 from London early. He hovered by the widow, checking his pocketwatch. When finally a helicopter landed on the lawn, he stormed out to it, tugging on his coat and taking a headset. “Any trouble?” he asked.

“No, sir. The marksmen are on the ground. Everything has progressed as expected.”

“Yes. The same on my end. Unfortunately.” Mycroft rolled his eyes and checked his pocketwatch again. 

He saw Appledore from the air, the huge home lit up. He didn’t notice the shadows on the patio at first. Not until the voice on his headset asked what was going on.

He squinted. Oh for the love of… He grabbed a loudspeaker. “Sherlock Holmes and John Watson. Stand away from that man.” He watched Sherlock’s mouth move. But he couldn’t hear the words. “What are they saying?” he asked over his headset. 

“I can’t hear properly, sir,” a crackling voice replied. “Something about the vaults. But that’s all I heard.”

“Sherlock Holmes and John Watson,” Mycroft called down. “Step away.”

Magnussen lifted his hands into the air. The armed ground team pointed their weapons towards the patio, towards all three of them. 

“Target is not armed,” an officer said. “I repeat, target is not armed.”

The seconds felt like minutes. It should be simple, Mycroft thought. They’d land, arrest him, head into Appledore and into the vaults and find all the secrets he had been harbouring. The national security secrets he had acquired through Moran and Moriarty and who knew how many others. They’d have him. He’d be gone, one more puzzle piece sitting in a jail cell where he couldn’t bother anyone anymore. 

But he looked to Sherlock. He didn’t trust his brother one iota. Not when he had that steely look in his eyes, a darkness in them Mycroft had never seen in Sherlock so acutely before. A darkness he had only ever seen in his own reflection. 

Desperate, now, he called out again. “Sherlock Holmes and John Watson, stand away from that man. Do it now.”

Then Sherlock was moving, moving, a quickstep to John’s side, reaching into his coat and then he was armed, gun pointed at Magnussen. Time froze, for a moment, as Sherlock spoke, shouted, said something inaudible. Then Magnussen was on the ground, a bullet in his brain. 

Sherlock dropped the gun and held his hands aloft. For a long moment, Mycroft could only hear the propellers and the heavy, constant beat of his heart. And then… “Stand fire!” he shouted out. “Do not fire on Sherlock Holmes! Do not fire!”

Sherlock dropped down to his knees, and John raised his hands. Mycroft thought he could see Sherlock then, just a child, when he killed that darn pigeon. Sherlock hadn’t known the pigeon was blind when he released the cat, but still, he didn’t try to save it. He’d howled though, at his uncle’s telling off. Sobbed his eyes out after, then sat, pathetic in his mother’s lap as silent tears streamed down his face. The pigeon still lay dead on the patio… 

This was no blind pigeon. This was a man. A powerful man shot down in front of sworn officers, some loyal to Mycroft, others not. None who would lie for him. Not about this. “Oh, Sherlock,” Mycroft whispered, disconsolate, seeing only his little brother and not the chaos around them. “What have you done?” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That Appledore is in Gloucester is a happy coincidence, as far as I remember. I may have planned it... but it was so long ago I can't remember: http://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/article-2539059/Sherlock-mansion-set-eight-bedroom-ten-floor-property-viewing-tower-bowling-alley-25m-swimming-pool.html
> 
> Greg and Mycroft listened to this: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=k3pltmw6cmI


	77. Unity

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy New Year and Happy Sherlock Day.

**December 2014.**

**Location: Baker Street, London.**

He hadn’t said a word to anyone since he told one of the pilots to pick up Sherlock and John Watson and fly them to London. He had to call Anthea, on Christmas Day of all days, to find a way to cover up Sherlock’s role in Magnussen’s death. He held himself together until it was he and Sherlock, alone in 221B, facing each other, silent. Then he felt the grief bubbling up inside him. He swallowed it down.

Sherlock sunk into his chair. “You’d have killed him,” he said with a shrug, as though that was a suitable explanation for shooting a man in the head at close range. “And he had nothing. No information, no vaults. I tried to warn you. But I suppose you didn’t hear me.”

“Don’t pretend you did this for me,” Mycroft said through clenched teeth. 

“I did this for all of us. I did it for Mary. And yes, I did it for you. You’d have taken Magnussen down, and you’d have been held accountable. I calculated. If I went down, you’d pull me out, if you went down…”

“I might not be able to pull you out of this, Sherlock. Not this time.”

Sherlock studied him and bit his lip. “Then, fine. Mary will be safe. Their baby is safe. That’s what matters.”

“And you?”

Sherlock offered him a wistful smile. “I slayed a dragon.”

“You have to stay here,” Mycroft told him. “There are agents outside, if you try to leave…”

“I understand.”

“Sherlock, I’m warning you…”

“Go home, Mycroft. You’re really pale, and I think you’re going into shock.” He rose to his feet, took hold of Mycroft’s shoulders and pushed him towards the door. “Wrap up warm.”

Mycroft stumbled out, and found the door closed in his face. He swallowed and made his way downstairs on shaking feet, gripping the banister as he went. He was taken straight home, but, by then, the world was beginning to swirl behind his eyes. He couldn’t save Sherlock this time, there was no way. 

And all he saw was a petrified little boy with blood on his hands. He wanted to cry. Shout. Howl. Hit something. And he was stuck in a whirlpool of devastation, the frightful knowledge that he hadn’t protected Sherlock this time. He had tried, for so long. There was no relief in this final failure. Just the acute awareness of his own defeat. 

Somehow he made it to his living room. He all but collapsed into his chair. He clung onto the arms like it may be his raft, that it may carry him away. He could only see one thing, over and over: Sherlock collecting the gun, firing it, Magnussen on the ground. He had seen death so many times, but witnessing his little brother cause it created a sickness deep inside him he was not sure would ever fade away. 

He couldn’t breathe. Moving was an effort. He’d never felt a pain like it. Nausea, and constant flashes of the gun and Sherlock and Magnussen on the ground. A loop. Sometimes Sherlock as he was now, a grown man, pulled the trigger. Sometimes it was the child he still remembered so clearly, that boy, so precocious, so foolish and naive. 

Words were spoken around him, mixed in with the heavy beating of his heart, the noise, endless noise, of the propellers. A blanket warmed him. 

“Mycroft. Do I need to ring an ambulance?”

Greg’s words pulled him away from the flashback. He managed to shake his head. He kept seeing it. Gun, Sherlock, Magnussen. Gun, Sherlock, Magnussen. God, Sherlock, what have you done? They could have shot him. MI5 could have… and he would have… Sherlock, bullets in his body, dead, lying on the pavement. 

Like Magnussen. 

Gun, Sherlock, Magnussen. 

Magnussen on the pavement. 

He trembled, trying to take a breath. Stop it, he told himself. It’s over, Sherlock’s alive. But he’s in trouble, deep, deep trouble. Sherlock, why? 

Greg’s hands were in his. Warm, solid. He loved Greg so much, he was overcome by it, it was so powerful, he’d never believed he’d feel a love like this, not for anyone who wanted him in return.

Gun. No, stop, he told himself. It has to end. Gun, Sherlock. Greg’s lips were on his fingers, he was so soft, so beautiful, nothing had ever brought him joy like Greg did. Gun, Sherlock, Magnussen. Again, he lived it. Propellers and his own voice making demands and why was it so endless? 

He gulped a breath. Fought off a shake. And managed to whisper Greg’s name.

“Hey,” Greg replied. “Hey, welcome back.”

Mycroft stared at the wall, saw it all again. “It’s my fault.”

“Mycroft what happened?”

“Sherlock killed Charles Magnussen. In front of MI5 agents. I couldn’t stop it.” He was wracked by guilt. “I couldn’t stop him. I was there… just…” Gun. Sherlock, whipping round and collecting it, firing it, Magnussen… 

“You don’t need to say anything else if you can’t,” Greg said. “Why don’t you come up to bed with me, lie down with me and we’ll get you off to sleep?”

“I can’t. It’s my fault, Greg.”

“No, no, you are not responsible for what Sherlock does.”

“He took my laptop. As I knew he would. Magnussen was the target, for possessing stolen national security information. We were going to end it. End him. And Sherlock shot him. It’s my fault.” Magnussen. Sherlock. Gun. “I failed to protect him,” he whispered. 

“Come to bed, love,” Greg said. Somehow, he was pulled to his feet, thank the heavens for Greg’s strength. He was undressed, and put into bed. He was pulled into Greg’s arms. He shook. He tried to cry. Somehow, he fell asleep. 

He woke with a gasp, hearing propellers, hearing a gunshot. He sat up. He was drenched in sweat. He took some calming breaths. And then it came back to him in waves. He could not save Sherlock this time. It was all too late. He’d failed. 

“Love?” Greg whispered.

Mycroft trembled. “I don’t know what to do.”

“You’ll figure it out,” Greg told him. “You always do.”

“I can’t save him this time. I weighed it up. I can’t help him. He killed a man, Greg. He shot him dead, in the centre of his forehead in front of me. John. MI5. I can’t hide that. I can’t save him. My whole life. Everything I’ve done came back to him. ‘Protect him’. That’s what my parents asked, and I tried. How many times did I fail, Greg?”

“Never.”

“So many times. The drugs, the Fall, Mary. I tried and I failed.”

“No.”

“The most important job I’ve ever had, and I always, always let him down.”

“Mycroft. Love, he’s a force of nature. He does what he wants. You can’t always stop him. You can’t always save him.”

“Greg.”

“Yeah?”

“What if everything is crumbling? What if Moran’s tsunamis are coming.” He heard his voice shake. “I can’t see how this ends. I don’t know how this ends.”

“I don’t know. I don’t know, I’m sorry. I wish I did. I wish I could say something, but you know I can’t. I won’t lie to you. But things will look better tomorrow.”

“Greg, I’m terrified.”

“What do you need?” Greg asked, stroking his shoulders.

Mycroft reached for his hand. “When the waves come… I want to be here with you.” He was pulled into Greg’s arms. 

“I’m always here,” Greg choked out. “Always, always, always. No matter what, you have me.”

He clung onto Greg, too hot to be so close, but unwilling to be parted for a moment. They watched the sun go up. 

Eventually, they moved from the bed. Greg guided him to the shower and washed his body and his hair. Mycroft managed a little of his breakfast. “I’m going to do some work. I need to work out how we sort this out,” he finally said.

“Course. I’ll just be around the house.”

“Will you sit with me?” Mycroft heard his own weakness in that, but he couldn’t be alone, not now. 

Greg kissed his head. “Course I will. Let me grab a book and I’ll be right with you.”

Mycroft sat in his office and turned his computer on. Anthea confirmed she had been able to keep the agents silent about Sherlock’s involvement. But there were already calls for Sherlock’s arrest. And one hopeful message, from Sylvia Ross. ‘Bad news reaches me so fast these days. I will sort everything out. We are all on your side. You did nothing wrong, you acted on information, as you ought to have done. We’ll buy the agents’ silences with jobs. It’ll all be worked out. We need you in the game, Mycroft.’ 

Mycroft studied his messages. And then he took one decisive step he knew he would deeply regret in the coming days. MI6’s offer to send Sherlock to Eastern Europe, to deal with those gangs he’d had so much success with before. Would they still consider it? 

He told Greg the whole story. The spiked punch, the laptop, the plan to catch Magnussen with top secret information. That the files did not exist, that Sherlock thought he was protecting him somehow… 

“Will he go to jail?” Greg asked.

“I need to convince Government ministers to send him to Eastern Europe on behalf of MI6.”

“And then what?” 

Mycroft stared at his computer. “I don’t deserve a man as good as you, Greg,” he said quietly. “But I’m so glad for you every day.”

“You deserve everything good. I promise.”

Mycroft didn’t feel it. But he started putting plans into action. That bought him some time. And it bought him a respite from the endless sound of the propellers.  

* * *

He met with Hugh Seagroves and Lady Smallwood in a conference room in Whitehall. They had brought the defence minister with them, a top prison officer, the Secretary of State for Justice, and other ranking men from MI5 and MI6.

Hugh Seagroves lay down the proposition, one he did not necessarily support. To send Sherlock away on the MI6 mission. It was survivable, but that was highly improbable. 

“It’s a death sentence,” the justice minister said. “We don’t have the death penalty in this country.” 

“Better than sending him to prison,” the defence minister pointed out. “You’ve seen the probation report. Sherlock Holmes would be a nightmare. Not to mention, the cause of Charles Magnussen’s death is unknown in the public domain. We cannot lock him up without revealing the fact we lied. Our hands are tied.”

“Sherlock Holmes is a matter of national security now,” Mycroft added. “You can use him if you wish. Or you don’t use him, and we all lose our jobs. As my colleague is fond of remarking, this country sometimes needs a blunt instrument. Equally, it sometimes needs a dagger – a scalpel wielded with precision and without remorse. There will always come a time when we need Sherlock Holmes.”

“If this is some expression of familial sentiment,” Hugh began.  

“Don’t be absurd. I am not given to outbursts of brotherly compassion. You know what happened to the other one.”

Hugh grimaced, both of them aware of what happened to Sherrinford. The Holmes brothers. All murderers, of a sort, now.

“In any event,” Mycroft continued. “There is no prison in which we could incarcerate Sherlock without causing a riot on a daily basis. The alternative, however, would require your approval.”

“Hardly merciful, Mr Holmes,” Lady Smallwood said.

“Regrettably, Lady Smallwood.” He kept his voice as steady as he could. And when the words came out, he no longer recognised the coldness he managed to display. “My brother is a murderer.” 

* * *

The deal was done, a die cast. Sherlock was awaiting the decision under lock and key at Baker Street, and he seemed as calm as ever when Mycroft saw him. “They agreed to the mission,” Mycroft told him. “They agreed it would meet all their endeavours better than having you in prison.”

“Well, they’re right,” Sherlock said. “I have more utility when I’m doing something for you.”

“Don’t throw my words back in my face," Mycroft snapped. "You did this, you killed him.”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. “I’m not going to fight with you now. I agree. This is best for all concerned.”

Mycroft took a deep breath. “Good. MI6 will not give you much help. It’s a hopeless mission. Important, I suppose, but hopeless. MI6 cannot afford to surround you with many agents, and although I can supply a couple, I’m afraid I cannot risk losing too many.”

“Six months, was it?”

“You may survive it. If you’re careful, and don’t get caught. You weren’t all that careful last time, I recall I had to fetch you. Nevertheless, if you survive six months, and complete the mission, we will be allowed to extract you. Then you can return to making a nuisance of yourself.”

“If I survive six months.”

“Unlikely, I’ve been led to believe.” Mycroft tightened his grip on his umbrella. “I did what I could for you, Sherlock. I fought for you." 

“I know. For once, I don’t disagree with you.”

They stared at each other. “I don’t much like goodbyes,” Mycroft finally said. “I’ll see you off at the airport, regardless.”

“We never did soft, brotherly love anyway.”

“No. We didn’t.” Mycroft kept his composure. “Well, for it’s worth, best of luck.” He pressed his lips tightly together. “A driver will be round the day after New Year's Day.” Sherlock stayed silent, watching him. Mycroft made for the door. “If you think I can bail you out of this one… I’m afraid I’ve done all I can.”

“Stop feeling guilty, Mycroft. I’m on board with this.”

Mycroft spun round to face him again. “And I never will be. So it’s simply another matter we will never agree on.” He opened the door and headed down to the car with a heavy heart. 

* * *

He brought in the new year with Greg and their two cats, watching old films and turning over to the BBC in time to see the fireworks. There was so much joy that night among the crowds. Mycroft heard it in the chords of Auld Lang Syne, ringing out over the banks of the Thames.

“What does that song actually mean?” Greg asked.

“For the sake of old times. It’s not a literal translation, but it’s the one which makes the most sense. More literally, it’s 'long, long ago'. It asks… is it right that old times be forgotten?” 

“What do you think?”

“Ordinarily, I’d tell you we should never forget what’s gone before. We must always remember history, both the world’s history and personal histories so we can learn from them. Tonight? Tonight, there is so much I wish I could forget.”

Wordless, Greg drew him close, and switched back to the film. Mycroft stared down at their joint hands, and touched his grandfather’s ring, still solid around his finger. He looked back at Greg, kissed him with all the passion he could muster, until it faded into need and desperation, just to be close, just to be connected. 

Not long later, as he pushed inside his partner’s body, Greg’s hands pinned up above his head by Mycroft’s own, he saw the glint of the ring. He kissed him, marked his chest with his mouth, drew sounds from him that he tried to bury in his mind. 

Mycroft knew Greg loved him with every ounce of his strength. He could see it, in those deep brown eyes, so focused on his own. His fingers, lacing with Mycroft’s, the trust he had to accept Mycroft into his body, their union, their private, loving, devoted, everlasting union. 

 

He looked back to the gold ring, then to Greg’s eyes as he pushed inside one more time. His orgasm overtook him, while Greg whispered ‘I love yous’ against his cheek. 

* * *

**January 2015.**

**Location: Cedar Court, Kensington, London.**

There was tension in the air. Mycroft was sure even Mulder and Sully could feel it radiating off them, for they had taken to walking between their legs and Mulder hadn’t left Mycroft’s side all morning.

“They know something’s wrong,” Mycroft said as he sat at the kitchen table and tried to nudge Mulder towards her food, only for her to leap onto his lap instead.

Greg carried over a tray of croissants. “She likes you best, that’s all it is.”

“She’s not usually this… fond.” Mycroft scratched between her ears, then nudged her back off his lap. He listened to the news on the radio as they ate. He nibbled the crumbling croissant, licked the sticky raspberry jam from his fingers, and left most of his breakfast on his plate. 

Greg reached over and took Mycroft’s hand in his own. “You did the very best you could. That’s what matters.”

“Thank you.” Mycroft stood up. “I’ll call when I’m home. What are you doing?”

“Going to go to the pub to watch some football. I need something to take my mind off it all.”

Mycroft leaned down to kiss him. “Is there anything you want me to say to Sherlock for you?” he asked.

“No,” Greg said. “No, I think we covered everything there was to say. He knows.”

Mycroft squeezed his shoulder and Greg kissed his fingers. Mycroft collected his coat, scarf and umbrella, and headed for the car that was already waiting outside.

He couldn’t say anything much to Malcolm as they drove. They exchanged a few brief words about ‘happy new year’, but Mycroft was not in a mood for conversation. He hardly heard the radio, besides a few lines of song. He clasped his hands and imagined how he would feel later, with Sherlock gone. Despair? Probably. He wasn’t sure how that would ever go away. 

Sherlock was quiet when he got out. Resolute, somehow. Poised. He made no childish comments, simply waited as John and Mary arrived to say their goodbyes. 

Mycroft couldn’t watch as the aeroplane took off. He sat in the car, keeping everything inside, knowing he could not afford to lose his composure now. He wasn’t sure he would ever get it back again if he broke down now. He frowned as his phone rang. “Hello?”

“It’s Moriarty,” Greg said. “There’s… his face is on every TV channel.”

“What?” Mycroft got back out of the car. “But that’s not possible. That is simply not possible.”

“I know. Just telling you what I can see right now.”

Mycroft’s phone beeped. He checked it. Hugh Seagroves was calling. “Greg, I have another call coming through. Get home. Just get the car and go home.”

“What about you?”

“I’ll be there when I can.”

“Mycroft. I love you.”

“And I, you. I’m sure it’s all perfectly safe but please, just go home.”

“Already on my way,” Greg promised before hanging up. 

Mycroft connected to the next call. “Hugh?”

“Every TV in the country has been taken over. It’s serious. It’s… that fanatic. Moriarty.”

“So I’ve heard. Try to find out where the signal is coming from and block it as soon as possible, before we have widespread panic across the nation. I have to go.”

“Mycroft…” Hugh stopped him. “Sherlock. Get him back.”

“What?”

“Just get him back, Mycroft, for goodness sake. We’ll deal with the consequences later.”

Mycroft stared at his phone. He could have laughed, if the whole thing wasn’t invoking a deep terror inside him. It was much too early yet to know what was happening. Still, there was no good here. He called Sherlock and told him he would be returning to the ground. 

Mycroft watched Moriarty’s message himself as he sat in his car, John and Mary peering through the window. 

“Bloody hell,” John muttered. 

“It can’t be just one signal,” Mary said. “It has to be multiple, if it was one, they could jam it, surely?”

“I don’t know,” Mycroft admitted. “I’m not an expert in television signals.”

They watched it on repeat. ‘Did you miss me? Did you miss me?’ on an endless loop. 

Finally, the aeroplane landed. The three of them made their way over to it and climbed up the steps.

“I have to go back,” Sherlock declared to him, fidgeting in his seat. “I was… I was nearly there! I nearly had it!”

“What on earth are you talking about?” Mycroft snapped.

“Ricoletti and his abominable wife! Don’t you understand? It was a case, a famous one from a hundred years ago, lodged in my hard drive. She seemed to be dead but then she came back. Shot herself in the head, exactly like Moriarty.”

“But you’ve only just been told,” Mary said. “We’ve only just found out. He’s on every TV screen in the country.”

Sherlock unfastened his seatbelt. “Yes? So? It’s been five minutes since Mycroft called. What progress have you made? What have you been doing?” 

“More to the point, what have you been doing?” John questioned. 

“I’ve been in my Mind Palace, of course, running an experiment: how would I have solved the crime if I’d been there in 1895?”

And then it dawned. Mycroft checked Sherlock’s eyes, his trembling hands. “Oh, Sherlock.” He turned away, wincing. “He was high before he got on the plane.” 

“He didn’t seem high,” Mary said, typing on her phone.

“Nobody deceives like an addict.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “I’m not an addict. I’m a user. I alleviate boredom and occasionally heighten my thought processes.” 

Mycroft leaned towards him. “Sherlock, listen to me.”

“No. It only encourages you.”

“I’m not angry with you… I was there for you before. I’ll be there for you again. I’ll _always_ be there for you.” He lowered his eyes. “This was my fault.”

“It was nothing to do with you.” 

“I should have realised that in your case, solitary confinement is locking you up with your worst enemy.” 

Sherlock rolled his eyes and sank back into his chair and began babbling… then. Silence. 

“Sherlock?” Mary asked. “Sherlock?”

“Sherlock!” Mycroft snapped.

John moved Mycroft aside, lowering his head to listen to Sherlock’s breathing. “He’s breathing, faintly, but breathing.” He checked Sherlock’s pulse. “For God’s sake, Sherlock.” 

“What do we do?” Mycroft asked.

“Check he doesn’t stop breathing. Come on, Sherlock, you stupid arsehole.” It was a good five minutes before Sherlock jerked awake, John still there, checking on him. “Sherlock? You all right?”

“Yes, of course I am. Why wouldn’t I be?”

“’Cause you probably just OD’d,” Mary said. “You should be in hospital.”

“No time,” Sherlock replied, rising to his feet. “I have to go to Baker Street now. Moriarty’s back.” 

“I almost hope he is,” Mycroft muttered. “If it’ll save you from this.”

Sherlock rounded on him. “What are you still doing here? Shouldn’t you be off getting me a pardon or something, like a proper big brother?” 

He shoved Mycroft aside with his shoulder, heading for the door. “Doctor Watson?” Mycroft called after the three of them. “Look after him. Please?”

He closed his eyes, gripping the back of the seat. He checked his phone, found it full of missed calls and messages. He took them on the way back to Cedar Court, confirming Sherlock was back on the case and so was he. There were questions, so many he couldn’t answer. All he knew was he needed to get home. 

Anthea asked if he was returning to work, and he couldn’t do it. He thought of it, the fortress he had built, and while usually when he was confronted with trouble he always chose to work, he did not want to be there this time. The thought of it brought on a tightening in his chest, a dread he couldn’t explain to himself. He would not go there, not now. 

His grandfather’s ring, his ring, now Greg’s ring, if he would accept it, sat heavy in his pocket. Now, more than ever, he needed to cement it, make it real. 

He found Greg staring out of the window in their bedroom, and relief flooded through him, and suddenly nothing else mattered for the moment. “Sherlock’s coming home,” Mycroft told him, wrapping his arms around him from behind, burying his face in his neck and inhaling his scent, letting it wash over him. “So that’s one less problem to worry about.”

Greg held onto his hands. “Cross Sherlock off the list and add Moriarty then.”

“Quite.”

Greg sunk against him. “Weird week. Really weird week.”

“Yes, it rather has been.”

“Mmm. Well. Let’s hope it starts looking up soon, yeah?”

Mycroft hummed, and paused. No time like the present, he supposed. “Greg, I’ve made a number of mistakes in the past week. But I realise, it is a new year, a time for new starts.”

“You didn’t mess up, Mycroft. Things just happened.”

“Nonetheless, I told you something a few months ago. And I realised just the other day that I was mistaken.”

Greg frowned. “What did you say?”

“I said I did not need to give you a ring to prove my loyalty to you. And I stand by that. I still don't believe that we should get married. But the fact of the matter is, sometimes when the world roars below, a physical symbol is enough to remind you that you are loved. Wanted. Needed.”

Greg turned in his arms, and Mycroft loosened his hold to draw out the blue box from his jacket pocket. “I was given my grandfather’s ring when I was 18 years old. It has meant a lot to me over these years. It was a sign of his love and affection for his partner. And it would be my honour if you would wear it.” He opened the box. “I’ve taken the liberty of having it resized.”

“That’s your grandfather’s ring,” Greg repeated. “His ring… you…”

“It is.”

“Jesus. God, Mycroft. Are you serious? You want me to wear this?”

“What do you think?” Mycroft asked.

Greg laughed and rubbed his face. “Yeah,” he said. “Well, if you’ve already gone and had it resized…” Mycroft smiled and reached for Greg’s left hand. “No, wait,” Greg said. For a moment, Mycroft thought he had misjudged everything. “The right hand,” Greg said, holding it out. “The same finger you had yours on.”

“Oh.” Mycroft fixed his eyes on Greg’s face as he eased it on. It fit perfectly, as he knew it would, but then, Mycroft knew every inch of Greg’s body as well as he knew his own. 

“This is… thank you,” Greg whispered.

“Thank _you_.”

“What about you?” Greg asked. “Does you finger feel a bit… naked now?”

“I thought perhaps we could find a ring for me together,” Mycroft said.

“Good idea.”

Mycroft kissed him, grasping his hands. If he could only stand there forever, he’d have been a truly happy man. 

“I suppose I should start making some lunch,” Mycroft said.

“I’ll join you.”

Mycroft led them down the hallway, stopping as he realised Greg was no longer following him. Greg shrugged and smiled at him, and Mycroft could only do the same, beginning to laugh at nothing at all.

“Come on,” he said, reaching out to Greg. “I’m so hungry I could eat an entire pig.”

Greg took his hand. “Don’t you have work?” 

“Oh, I have work. I dread to think how much. But for now, I’m here with you. I’ll need you to go to see Sherlock, check how he is.”

“What happened?”

Mycroft sighed. “I’ll tell you after lunch. Let’s enjoy this moment, for now.” He kissed Greg as they reached the kitchen, then kissed his hand, just over the ring. “The madness can wait an hour or two.” 

* * *

It took around that long for them to finally cut the signal to Moriarty’s video. Sherlock had that to focus on, and Mycroft had his own worries and dreads. He wasn’t sure if this was about Sherlock anymore. He had a feeling, as he had done for months, that this was all about him.

Someone wanted him out of the way, he was sure of it. 

But life continued. He went to the Natural History Museum for a meeting of the board of trustees. The agenda was the same as always, until he read point nine. ‘Dippy and the blue whale’, it said. Mycroft glanced around, to see the same confused faces on the other trustees.

The first eight items were rushed through, until the museum’s President was invited to talk on the ninth matter. “It’s been a thought we’ve had for a long time about modernisation at the museum, and progress on that continues, as you all know. We don’t want to modernise for the sake of it, and I think all our work has been in-keeping with the museum’s ethos and foundations. Nonetheless, we have taken the decision to move Dippy and replace him with the blue whale. We know this will not be uncontroversial, and we would need your agreement. I want to open this discussion out to the floor now.”

“Why?” one member asked.

“Time for a change? Dippy’s been there for years.”

“Since 1979,” Mycroft murmured.

The President nodded him a thanks. “Since 1979. But he is a replica, not real. And the blue whale is real. And we think the blue whale is in-keeping with our conservation efforts, and our science. It is also bigger, and we think it will make as big an impact on our visitors as Dippy currently does. And hopefully it’ll inspire the next group of marine biologists and scientists and conservationists.”

The debate went on for over an hour, Mycroft wavering between voting in favour of the whale, and then realising how unacceptable it was to think of Dippy no longer in place in the grand entrance. 

“But sometimes change is good,” he heard himself saying. “This entire museum is about evolution. Perhaps we should honour that with the museum’s own evolution.” 

He voted in favour of the blue whale. He was voting in favour of change.

“That whole museum has proof of change and evolution in every corner,” he told Greg later. “You have to adapt, or die. There are no other options. And I’m not against change or modernisation.”

Greg pressed his lips to Mycroft’s forehead. “When is Dippy moving?”

“Not until 2017. There’s plenty of time to make peace with it.”

“That’s good.”

Mycroft nodded. “Still, it’s strange. Of all the things I’ve ever known, Dippy was constant. He’s always been there. He’s changed a little over the years but… mostly, he has remained unchanged. It’s strange when you realise that even the things you think will stay the same… just don’t.”

“Yeah, I hear that,” Greg murmured. “But you know. Some changes are good.”

Mycroft kissed him. “Yes,” he whispered. “Yes, I quite agree.”

* * *

Lord Moran chose to talk again. Nadia Swift went to hear what he had to say. He didn’t say a lot, as before. “I saw about Magnussen’s death in the newspaper,” he said.

“You shouldn’t have access to newspapers,” Nadia replied.

“Too late. It reminded me of that conversation I had with Magnussen. A little tidbit of information… his source. He told me his source for the Bond Air story. It was a man named Mick.” Lord Moran frowned. “No, that doesn’t sound quite right, does it? Mick? Michael. Perhaps it was Michael. No, I don’t think it was. Mike… Mike… Michael… Mycroft. Yes, that was it.” Lord Moran smiled. "His source was Mycroft Holmes. Just a little piece of information I thought you might like.”

“He’s lying,” Mycroft whispered, pushing his chair away from the table. “Someone needs to tell Nadia that he…” He bit his bottom lip. But it wouldn’t matter, would it? Because Nadia doubted him already. He remembered Sherlock’s Fall. How Moriarty made him look like a fraud, built him up to tear him down. 

Someone was doing that to him. Undermining his authority, his standing, trying to present him as a criminal, a security threat… 

Anthea and Mads were debating already. They were finding ways to prove Mycroft had never divulged sensitive information, a way to bring Nadia into the Coeur de Lion to show her how they did things. 

And a little bit of Mycroft… didn’t give a damn. He pressed his lips together and let them talk, because Lord Moran was certainly not going to anymore. He’d said everything he had to say. He was probably working with Moran, and who knew who else, and they’d bring Mycroft down. They had worked with the Waters Gang, who had hacking capabilities, and probably planted Moran’s stupid elephant, and deleted Mary Watson’s computer records… And Magnussen was just part of the game. A bit of fun. 

Nadia was invited to the office, and she told Mycroft she didn’t believe the ramblings of a criminal. After all, Magnussen didn’t have information on Bond Air as it turned out, did he? But Mycroft saw the doubt in her eyes. He knew her long enough to read her hesitation. One seed of doubt… that was all it would take. 

And Mycroft… wasn’t sure he really cared anymore. 

He left work early. His head was filled with a cacophony of voices, screaming, shouting, all begging to be heard, and he couldn’t pick out a single word. He took painkillers for the headache, and was only comforted when he found Greg at home and he was pulled into a tight hug. 

“Are you alright?” Greg asked.

“Bad day. I’ll tell you later, when I’ve got my head straightened out.”

Greg frowned at him, worried. “I had planned for us to go out tonight. Anniversary, and everything. But if you want to stay in…”

“No.” Mycroft touched his cheek. “No, we’ll keep your plans. It’s important. I’ll have a shower first. Where are we going?”

“A restaurant, but the reservation isn’t until 8.30pm. It’s a pizza place - not a chain, I promise. Just a normal pizza place, but they do loads of different flavours and you can pick and mix, it’s quite fun. So casual-smart. But we’re going somewhere else first. Still, it’s not super smart.”

“Where are we going?” Mycroft asked. 

“Surprise.”

Mycroft blinked. “Alright. I’ll shower then. And eat something, if we’re not going to eat until late.”

“Omelette?”

“Perfect.”

“I’ll cook those, you shower, then we’ll go out.”

Mycroft smiled to him, but as he stood in the shower, the ache returned. Something had settled over him, a discomfort, a lingering sensation of impending doom and disaster. “For goodness sake,” he scolded himself. “We’ve faced worse before.”

He wiped his eyes, angry at himself for getting so upset. He joined Greg in the kitchen, but still it was there, something gnawing at him, a wild, ferocious creature he could not dismiss. 

Greg chatted easily in the car, talking about his recent cases with Sherlock, something bizarre to do with Thatcher statues. It was only when the car stopped that Mycroft finally checked where they were. “You brought me here,” he whispered, touching the car window.

“Late-night opening,” Greg told him. “Good? Bad?”

“Good. Very good.” Mycroft took Greg’s hand as they made their way up the museum’s steps. Dippy still stood in the centre of the hall, magnificent as always. They bought glasses of sparkling wine, and wandered round the downstairs for a while, before returning to Dippy. Mycroft thought of himself, when he was so young, seeing Dippy for the first time and looking up at him. It had been such a simple time then. Everything had been so easy. 

They walked up the stairs together, and stood at their favourite spot on the balcony, overlooking Dippy’s tail. Though the museum wasn’t empty, most of the visitors were downstairs, leaving them alone on the upper floor. 

“I’m like a child when I come here,” Mycroft said. “I look around and… I’m eight years old, still finding wonder in the world.” He gripped Greg’s hand and stared across the museum. For a flickering moment, he felt adrift and filled with paralysing fear. 

“Mycroft?” 

Everything blurred around him. He was dizzy with it, his system shot to bits with the noise rushing in his head. He needed silence, he needed something, anything, to make it stop… If he were honest, he’d felt like this for months, before Sherlock and Magnussen, perhaps longer than months, and he felt sick and he needed it to be over… 

“I don’t want to do my job anymore,” he said, the words escaping in a rush, sudden. “I don’t want…” He stared around at the hall, feeling so small, so lost. He grasped for Greg. “Greg, I don’t…”

“Shh, shh.” Greg put their glasses down on the floor and pulled him close, a hand resting on the back of his head. “It’s okay. You don’t have to do anything you want to do.”

Mycroft took a long breath to steady himself. He curled his fingers in Greg’s jacket. “I don’t know what to do. I’m so… I’m so scared all the time, I don’t know how to breathe anymore.”

“We’ll figure this out. I promise. We’ll find a way to sort this all out, okay?”

Mycroft swallowed and pulled back to look at him, hands on his biceps. “I think… I think I built an empire, Greg. And I don’t think I want to rule over it anymore.”

“Then… don’t.” 

Mycroft frowned. “Don’t? It's not that simple...”

“It is, just… just walk away.”

“Abdicate.”

“Yeah.”

Mycroft breathed in deeply. “It will take some time.”

“I know. However long it takes, but you’ll get there, and it’ll be done before you know it. Look… what do you want, Mycroft? What do you _really_ want?”

“What do I want?”

“Yeah.”

Mycroft hesitated. “You,” he managed. “Just you.”

“You have me.”

Mycroft reached out and touched Greg's chest, over his heart. “Then that’s enough. It’s… it’s everything.” 

Greg leaned forward and kissed him, and Mycroft saw possibilities. He saw himself, a few years on, in his study in their home, finishing a book on his family history. He would hire a handyman to build an arbour in the garden, like the one he loved so much at Oak Manor, and he would read in the summer with the cats lazing in the sun, and Greg’s feet in his lap as he watched the football on his iPad. They would go inside and make their dinner, and sit by the fire in the winters. 

It would be a quiet life, but somehow he craved it. He would be free. Ten years ago, he walked into a meeting and sat by the Prime Minister. He took power from every corner, when it was given and when it was not. And he was done, he was finished. 

He glanced down at Dippy. He wanted that simplicity. He wanted the freedom to walk the earth, without the oppressive weight of the universe pressing him down. 

“Is this the right moment to say your ring came in the post today?” Greg asked, kissing his cheek.

“My ring?”

Greg reached into his pocket and held the box out to him. “Mycroft Holmes,” he said with a soft smile. “We don’t have to sign papers, or have rings, or stand up in front of your parents to prove anything. I don’t want that, not like I thought I did. I just want to go where you go, and live with you and be with you. You’re everything I want too. I’d…” He took the ring from the box. “If you still want to wear it then… I’d like that too.”

“I do,” Mycroft whispered, lifting his hand. He let out a soft laugh. “Oh good lord, we’re getting married on our own in the museum, aren’t we?”

Greg snorted a laugh. “You’re the one who said ‘I do’, not me.”

“Oh, shut up, and put the ring on my finger before you realise you’re in love with a madman and change your mind.”

Greg snorted and eased the ring onto Mycroft’s finger. They looked down at it.  

“It’ll be terribly dull now I’ve quit,” Mycroft said, thoughtful. “I won’t know anything about terrorists or wars or the nuclear codes.”

Greg smiled easily, holding Mycroft’s hands. “Damn. Just when I was beginning to enjoy the James Bond lifestyle.”

“I could still drink martinis.” Mycroft pondered it. “Although, I never drink martinis…”

“Will you still drive a posh car?”

“It goes without saying.”

“And the suits?”

“I wasn’t planning to trade them in for denim.”

Greg laughed and tugged him close. “You’d still be Mycroft Holmes, you know? Whatever you do.” 

“Yes. Yes, I suppose I would be.” Mycroft kissed him. And with it, he let go of the keys to the kingdom. His empire would fall. And yet he still had everything he had ever wanted, right there in his heart, right there in his arms. 

“I love you,” Greg whispered. He pressed his lips to Mycroft’s cheek, as they overlooked the hall. Greg's arm snaked back around his waist. Mycroft turned his head to look at him, the familiar, soft smile on Greg’s face, his brown eyes, warm and welcoming. 

Something lifted from his chest. The promise of freedom beckoned. 

Taking Greg’s hand in his, Mycroft looked back towards Dippy, that piece of his childhood, his safe haven… and thought of the blue whale replacing it. But it’ll be fine, he thought. Because things always can, and do, and should, change. 

He squeezed Greg’s hand. “Somethings don’t change,” he whispered.

And, comforted by the thought of them growing old together in their home, a slow smile spread over Mycroft’s face. For the here and now, he was at peace with his life. And finally he was at peace with the world. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cue end credits song: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HRS-hsbYPbY 
> 
> I'm a little bit in shock, honestly. I finished the last two chapters in about fifteen hours, and it was over before I really had a chance to process it. This whole fic has been ridiculous. In a good way, but it's been a host of things I never thought it could be. 
> 
> This is around 471,700 words. But it's taken almost exactly two years to write. I've averaged just over 600 words a day, but that's clearly a lie, since I definitely haven't written every day. But it's certainly proved to me what I'm capable of. 
> 
> Today is Sherlock Day. I'm a bit scared. I hope I'll still be inspired to write in this fandom afterwards, but you never know how you will feel once the new material emerges. 
> 
> Regardless, writing this and Human Remains has been an amazing time for me. It's taken the best part of three years, and I didn't realise how emotional I'd be about ending it until I wrote the ending to this chapter this afternoon and sobbed like a baby. I do feel like I've just released my child into the world. 
> 
> I have too many people to thank, so I will do so individually in the comments. But thank you to everyone who has read this, stuck with me when I've taken long gaps in writing, and commented. You guys perk me right up every time, especially when I'm biting my nails over how a plot twist will be taken. 
> 
> I've taken liberties with the plot in this, in a way I didn't with Human Remains. I hope this has worked. I hope you will agree with me that this is a fitting ending for Greg and Mycroft, and that Mycroft especially has worked out just where he wants to be. 
> 
> Whatever happens next on our Sherlock journeys (please be gentle with us, dear Mark and Steven!!), I hope people will continue to enjoy this story, and its place in time within Sherlockian canon. 
> 
> For more from me, I'm Saziikins on Tumblr. I'm sure I'll post plenty of Mycroft and Lestrade pics as the series rumbles on... 
> 
> Until the next set of stories...  
> Lots of love,  
> Sarah


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